THE 


MILLS  OF  TUXBURI 


BY 

VIRGINIA    F.   TOWNSEND, 

AUTHOR    OF 

'THE  HOLLANDS,"        "DEERINGS  OF  MEDBURY,"        "Six  IN  ALL,"  etc. 


Consider  this, 

That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation:  we  do  pray  for  Mercy, 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 

MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


BOSTON. 


1HE  MILLS  OF  TDXBURY. 


CHAPTER    I. 

A  DAY  drawing  toward  sunset,  late  in  the  autumn, 
and  a  landscape  —  I  want  you  to  see  it  just  as  I  once 
saw  it,  to  feel,  as  I  did,  its  weird  power  take  hold  upon 
you  with  a  spell,  half  a  terror  and  half  a  fascination. 

Nothing  here  of  sunshine  and  clover  blossoms,  of  wide, 
green  swells  of  June  leaves,  and  fresh,  tender  scents 
clinging  to  the  air;  yet  there  was  a  wonderful  mag- 
netism in  that  landscape,  which  some  human  faces  seem 
to  possess,  not  always  the  brightest  or  fairest. 

Afar  in  the  distance  was  a  cold,  blue  rim  of  sea,  and 
nearer,  the  river,  whose  low  banks  overflowed  every  day 
when  the  great  salt  tides  ran  inland ;  then  the  lonely, 
picturesque  road,  with  the  tall  mass  of  bare,  reddish- 
gray  rock  on  one  side  and  the  thick  woods  on  the 
other. 

Everything  had  a  dismal,  worn-out  look.  The  grand 
play  of  the  year  was  over,  and  nothing  now  remained 
but  wreck  and  debris  ;  lights  and  color  all  drowned  out 
in  the  harsh,  rasping  breath  of  November ;  the  sky  wore 
its  old,  thick  wrinkles  of  gray  clouds ;  the  earth,  that 

8 


4  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

cold,  sickly  pallor  which  comes  over  it  when  her  face 
settles  down  in  waiting  for  its  shroud  of  snows. 

The  road,  creeping  along  at  the  foot  of  that  dark,  vast 
pile  in  a  way  that  would  have  made  an  artist  hanker 
for  brush  and  palette,  curved  around  the  rocks  and  then 
went  in  a  zigzag,  uncertain  way  through  the  woods  for 
half  a  mile,  winding  past  hollows  and  gullies  choked 
with  damp  and  darkness  now,  whatever  they  might  be 
in  summer,  and  coming  out  upon  a  worm-eaten,  rotten 
old  bridge  that  crossed  the  river,  —  the  road  kept  on 
through  upward  swells  of  pasture  and  meadows  until, 
three  miles  off,  and  a  dozen  from  the  coast,  it  struck  the 
hills,  in  one  of  whose  valleys  stood  the  great  smelting 
furnaces  of  Tuxbury,  in  another  the  cotton  factories 
which  formed  the  principal  material  features  of  the  wide, 
sluggish  old  town  in  northern  New  England.  I  am  not 
certain  whether  you  can  find  this  place  on  the  map,  but 
no  matter  ;  you  can  find  plenty  of  towns  just  like  it. 

Round  the  curve  of  the  rocks  into  the  road  there 
came  suddenly  this  afternoon  a  small  figure  in  a  mantle 
of  gray  water-proof,  a  little  scarlet  scarf,  and  a  coarse 
straw  hat,  with  a  bit  of  scarlet  plume  in  the  front  of 
that  also. 

As  a  low,  menacing  gust  of  wind  swept  through  the 
narrow  opening  betwixt  rock  and  forest,  the  girl  lifted 
up  her  face  and  shivered  a  little,  drawing  the  water- 
proof closer  about  her,  with  one  hand  cased  in  a  brown 
cotton  glove. 

It  was  not  a  handsome  face,  —  sun-browned  and  a 
little  too  peaked  for  even  health,  much  less  beauty,  — 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBVRY.  5 

but  it  was  a  clear,  honest,  wholesome  face.  There  were 
force,  life,  character  in  it,  which  so  many  pretty  faces 
want.  If  the  cheeks  lacked  bloom,  the  lips  and  eyes 
made  up  for  that,  —  the  one  a  brighter  scarlet  than  the 
checkerberries  in  the  hollows  of  the  woods,  and  the  other 
full  of  a  warm,  steady  light. 

Berry  Shumway  was  going  home  from  her  day's 
work  in  the  factory.  She  was  fifteen  years  old,  but  her 
general  appearance  gave  you  an  impression  that  she  was 
much  younger  than  she  really  was  ;  at  least  when  the 
old  worried  look  did  not  come  into  her  face,  quenching 
the  light  in  the  dark  eyes  and  making  the  scarlet  lips 
quiver ;  but  it  slipped  off  and  on,  as  worries  are  apt  to 
over  warm,  helpful  little  souls  like  that  of  Berry  Shum- 
way's. 

It  was  a  strange  name,  people  thought,  or  said  if  they 
were  of  the  blunt,  outspoken  pattern,  taking  it  for  the 
first  time  between  their  lips.  The  fact  was,  she  had 
another  name,  although  nobody  ever  thought  of  that 
now ;  indeed,  nobody  perhaps  had  even  heard  of  it,  ex- 
cept her  brother.  She  had  one,  ten  years  older  than 
herself,  these  two  being  the  last  of  the  family.  The 
father  had  been  one  of  the  better  class  of  operatives  in 
a  small  English  manufacturing  town,  and  had  crossed 
the  ocean  with  his  household  to  better  his  fortunes. 
These  did  not  prosper  in  the  New  World.  The  climate 
treated  him  unkindly,  and  sickness  and  poverty  broke 
the  man  down,  soul  and  body. 

Those  were  miserable  years  of  struggling  and  suffer- 
ing, living  from  hand  to  mouth ;  the  Wolf,  that  awful 


6  THE   MILLS   OF   TUX  BURY. 

Wolf  of  Poverty,  with  its  gaunt  face  and  hungry  eyes, 
always  at  the  door. 

At  last  the  Englishman  died,  and  his  little,  faded, 
toil-worn  wife  shivered  out  of  life  a  little  later. 

I  think  Berry  got  what  was  best  in  her  from  her 
mother,  yet  she  had  more  native  force  than  a  half-a- 
dozen  of  either  parents.  From  the  mother,  too,  she 
had  her  name,  —  a  happy  inspiration  that  came  to  the 
woman  one  day  as  she  kissed  the  small  scarlet  mouth  of 
her  baby,  and  remembered  the  glitter  of  red  berries 
among  the  old  hedgerows  of  the  far-off  English  home ; 
and  thereafter,  for  good  or  for  evil,  the  child's  name  was 
Berry. 

So  much  for  the  antecedents  of  the  girl.  As  she 
comes  up  the  road,  the  bits  of  color  about  her  and  the 
glow  which  the  long  walk  and  the  sharp  winds  have 
brought  into  her  face,  in  contrast  with  the  dingy  grays 
and  browns  of  the  landscape,  make  her  look  prettier 
than  she  really  is.  Some  pleasant  thought  comes  into 
her  face,  and  suddenly  —  she  is  a  quick,  wiry,  nervous 
little  thing  from  head  to  foot  —  she  first  drops  down  on 
the  stone,  draws  out  of  her  pocket  a  small,  faded,  blue 
silk  purse  and  shakes  out  the  money  in  her  hand,  —  a 
little  heap  of  silver ;  it  was  at  least  two  years  before 
the  war.  —  and  two  or  three  bank-bills,  ragged  at  the 


Berry  counted  it  all  over  carefully.  It  had  been  pay- 
day at  the  factory  that  afternoon.  "Eight  dollars!  " 
she  said  to  herself,  and  a  little,  pleased  smile  came  about 
her  mouth.  It  seemed  a  large  amount  of  money  to  the 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  7 

factory-girl,  —  nearly  three  weeks  of  daily  toil  had  gone 
into  that  sum.  She  drew  a  long,  pleased  sigh.  "  I  can 
have  my  new  shawl  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  —  "the 
crimson-clouded  one  with  the  heavy  fringe.  How  warm 
and  pretty  it  will  be  !  If  it  wasn't  so  late,  I  might  go 
over  and  get  it  this  very  night ;  but  then  there's  Hardy's 
supper.  I  could  send  him,  but  he'd  be  sure  to  get  the 
wrong  one.  Men  never  know.  Eight  dollars  !  What 
a  heap  of  money  that  is  !  "  her  eyes  gloating  wide  over  it. 

Somebody  heard  the  last  words,  and  somebody  caught 
sight  of  the  quaint  little  figure  sitting  down  there  on  a 
stone  in  the  road.  It  was  a  man  on  a  large,  spirited 
bay  horse,  himself  probably  not  far  into  his  thirties,  a 
heavy  overcoat  buttoned  up  close  to  the  throat,  a 
pleasant,  intelligent  face,  with  brown  beard  and  hair. 

The  girl,  absorbed  in  her  money,  did  not  hear  the 
horse's  hoofs  in  the  dry  sand.  A  comical  expression 
came  across  the  man's  face.  Seeing  that,  you  would 
know  that  he  relished  a  joke  ;  and  anybody  who  knew  the 
stranger  could  have  told  you  that  he  was  a  generous, 
impulsive  fellow.  He  slid  carefully  off  his  animal  now, 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and,  stepping  up  softly 
to  the  girl,  laid  a  five-dollar  bill  down  on  her  knee  by 
the  little  pile  there. 

"  That  will  make  the  heap  a  little  larger,"  he  said, 
replying  only  to  her  last  words,  which  were  all  he  had 
overheard. 

"Oh!  "  A  little  start,  and  the  girl  looked  up  and 
saw  the  gentleman's  face  with  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 
It  was  his  turn  to  be  surprised  now,  for  as  he  caught 


8  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 

sight  of  the  little,  drooping,  cloaked  figure  on  the  stone, 
he  had  fancied  it  belonged  to  a  child  of  not  more  than 
ten  years.  Something  was  scarlet  beside  Berry's  lips 
then,  and  color  always  made  her  look  well.  "I — I 
thank  you,"  she  stammered,  "but  I  —  I  don't  like  to 
take  the  money." 

Had  the  girl  turned  out  a  princess  in  disguise,  Ben- 
jamin Whitmarsh  had  native  tact  enough  to  get  himself 
gracefully  out  of  any  scrape  in  which  his  careless  gener- 
osity and  love  of  fan  had  plunged  him. 

"This  girl  had  seen  a  baker's  dozen  of  birthdays, 
perhaps,  when  he  had  counted  on  several  behind  that, 
and  had,  it  appeared,  been  well  enough  brought  up  to 
feel  that  it  was  not  just  the  thing  to  take  money  from 
strangers  on  the  road." 

All  this  flashing  through  the  young  man's  mind  in  a 
breath,  he  patted  the  girl  on  the  shoulder  in  a  most 
grandfatherly  fashion.  "  Oh,  never  mind  me,  child  !  "  he 
said.  "I'm  such  a  venerable  old  gentleman  that  I  some- 
times take  it  into  my  head  to  do  things  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary way ;  and  you  must  just  think  of  me  as  a  real 
Santa  Glaus  whom  you  met  on  the  road  a  little  ahead 
of  his  time,  and  who  had  a  right  to  see  that  you  had 
something  to  put  in  your  stocking  against  Christmas. 
Good-by,"  lifting  his  hat.  Politeness  was  such  an  in- 
stinct with  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  that,  to  his  honor  be  it 
said,  he  would  have  used  the  very  same  ceremony  to  a 
barefooted  beggar ;  and  then  he  sprang  on  his  horse  be- 
fore Berry  Shumway  could  gather  up  those  bright, 
scattered  little  wits  of  hers  into  one  word. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXDURT.  9 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  this  is  the  road  to  Tuxbury 
Mills?  "  asked  the  gentleman. 

' '  Yes,  sir ;  keep  to  your  right  until  you  cross  the 
bridge,  and  then  turn  to  the  left." 

"  Thank  you,  child."  He  galloped  away  the  next 
moment  and  left  Berry  all  alone  in  the  road,  without 
giving  her  time  to  say  one  word  more  about  the  money, 
which  she  had  fully  intended  to  do. 

She  walked  on  rapidly  now,  thinking  over  the  singular 
event  which  had  just  happened  to  her.  It  had  altogether 
an  air  of  romance  which  struck  her  imagination.  She 
was  too  young  yet  to  feel  any  heart-flu tterings  or  build 
any  air-castles  out  of  the  thing ;  and  beside  that,  Berry 
understood  her  position  perfectly,  and  the  wide  gulf 
there  was  between  her  and  the  gracious,  handsome  gentle- 
man ;  at  least  he  seemed  the  latter  in  her  eyes. 

"He  must  have  thought  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  and 
I'm  almost  fifteen."  she  said  to  herself,  a  smile  coming 
into  the  small,  brown,  quaint  face.  Then  she  opened 
her  hand  and  looked  at  the  money,  and  smoothed  out 
the  edge  of  the  bank-note.  Order  was  an  instinct  with 
the  girl. 

Then  she  fell  to  thinking  of  the  new  hat  which  lay  in 
this  windfall,  as  sudden  and  strange  as  though  it  had 
dropped  right  down  from  one  of  those  lowering  clouds  in 
the  sky.  She  pleased  herself  thinking  of  the  bright 
flutter  of  ribbons,  and  of  the  one  rosebud  on  which  her 
heart  had  been  set.  She  had  a  hankering  after  fresh, 
pretty  things,  such  as  she  saw  in  the  store  windows ; 
and  really  I  have  known  a  good  many  elegant  women 


10  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

no  wiser  than  this  poor,  foolish,  little  factory  girl,  who 
counted  her  dimes  and  hoarded  her  pennies  so  carefully 
in  order  to  buy  her  bits  of  bright-colored  ribbons  and 
snowy  laces. 

"  That  was  dreadfully  funny  what  he  said  about 
Santa  Claus,  too.  Did  he  really  s'pose  I'd  believe  it, 
I  wonder?  "  the  smile  broadening  about  the  large,  sen- 
sitive, scarlet  mouth  into  a  merry  little  laugh.  { '  Grand 
folks  al'ays  talk  in  that  way,  I  guess.  It  must  be  very 
nice,  so  different  from  our  ways ;  "  and  a  little  gravity 
or  regret  came  up  slowly  into  the  smile. 

"I  wonder" — a  moment  later,  playing  with  the 
fringes  of  the  little  blue  purse  while  she  talked  — 
"  what  Hardy  would  say  to  all  this  ?  I'm  almost  afraid 
to  tell  him,  for  he's  funny  sometimes,  and  there's  no 
knowing  how  things  will  strike  him ;  he  might  say, 
'  Fine  gentlemen  like  that  have  no  business  to  be  givin' 
big  presents  to  little  girls  they  meet  in  the  road.  You'd 
better  have  flung  it  back  in  his  face.' 

"  And  then,  though  I  know  it  was  all  right  from  the 
way  the  gentleman  looked  and  spoke,  I  might  not  make 
Hardy  think  so,  for  he's  dreadful  set,  Hardy  is." 

The  road  wound  now  through  a  long  stretch  of  half- 
cleared  land,  the  charred,  unsightly  trunks  giving  a 
peculiarly  dismal  effect  to  the  landscape;  and  at  last 
Berry  came  upon  the  settlements  of  factory  operatives, 
the  low,  unpainted  buildings  huddled  together  in  a  slip- 
shod fashion  that  too  often  suggested  anything  but  order 
and  comfort  inside.  It  is  true  there  was  a  wide  differ- 
ence in  the  air  of  the  houses,  for  the  settlement  of  per- 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  11 

haps  a  thousand  people  in  all,  represented  at  least 
a  half-dozen  different  nationalities,  —  German,  Welsh, 
Scotch,  English,  with  a  plentiful  interfusion  of  Celts. 

The  larger  proportion  of  the  front  yards  had  a  slat- 
ternly, unkempt  appearance,  the  ground  strewn  with 
masses  of  decaying  weeds,  and  bits  of  broken  crockery, 
and  heaps  of  dirt ;  while  others  flaunted  even  now  a 
few  hardy  marigolds  and  dahlias,  which  had  weathered 
the  frosts,  and,  though  a  good  deal  chilled  and  faded, 
still  carried  a  hint  of  the  summer. 

Behind  every  one  of  the  doors  in  that  hive  of  opera- 
tives there  was  poverty,  but  with  some  there  were  order 
and  neatness,  and  with  others  unthrift  and  slatternliness. 
Berry  paused  before  one  of  the  smallest  houses,  a  little 
apart  from  the  others.  There  could  not  have  been  at 
the  farthest  more  than  four  rooms  inside  that  little  un- 
painted  shell.  The  square  of  front  yard,  however,  was 
as  clean  as  possible.  A  morning-glory  vine  was  flaunt- 
ing a  few  of  its  withered  leaves  before  the  windows,  and 
there  were  bunches  of  phlox  still  holding  out  a  few 
white  blossoms  like  stray  snow-flakes.  Garden  pinks 
and  sweet-williams  must  have  made  a  brave  show  in  that 
square  plot  of  soil  every  summer.  Everything  had  evi- 
dently been  made  the  most  of,  even  to  the  gate,  which, 
unlike  most  of  the  others,  had  been  nicely  mended  and 
swung  smoothly  on  its  hinges. 

Berry  turned  into  the  front  door,  and  caught  sight  of 
a  large,  round-shouldered,  loose-jointed  figure  before  the 
hearth. 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 


"  Why,  Hardy,  I  didn't  s'pose  you'd  get  ahead  of 
me,"  she  said. 

The  man  turned  and  looked  at  her,  a  large,  tanned, 
homely  face  to  suit  the  figure ;  broad  and  coarse,  with 
its  heavy  jaws,  and  its  dull,  brick-colored  hair,  yet  not 
a  bad  face,  though  it  gave  you  at  first  an  impression  of 
dulness,  inertness,  which  the  glance  in  the  deep-set 
eyes  fairly  contradicted.  The  heavy  jaws  too,  had  a 
kind  of  stubborn,  bull-dog  obstinacy  in  their  habit  of 
shutting  together.  The  soul  under  that  sluggish,  heavy 
mass  might  be  slow  in  coming  to  a  resolution,  but  when 
it  was  once  taken,  it  would  grip  fast  and  long. 

The  man  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  Berry.  As 
soon  as  she  saw  his  face  she  knew  something  had  hap- 
pened. 

"Oh,  what  is  the  matter,  Hardy?"  tossing  off  her 
hat  and  showing  a  heap  of  bright,  auburn  hair,  as  she 
sprang  toward  her  brother,  a  quick  fear  leaping  into  her 
eyes. 

"They've  had  a  fight  over  to  the  Furnace,"  shooting 
out  the  words  in  a  hard,  sullen  way,  as  one  might,  tell- 
ing a  disagreeable  truth  which  there  was  no  hiding,  and 
which  the  sooner  it  was  out,  the  better. 

"  A  fight !  0  Hardy,  that  is  so  dreadful!  "  her  face 
scared. 

"Yes,  bad  enough ;  a  dozen  of  the  hands  turned  off, 
—  me  amongst  the  number,"  the  last  words  ground  out 
low  and  coarse  betwixt  the  set  jaws. 

"  You  !  0  Hardy,  you ! "  the  words  gasped  out 
under  her  breath,  her  lips  growing  white  as  she  caught 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  13 

the  first  glimpse  of  a  long,  ugly,  black  bruise  across  his 
left  temple,  half  hiding  itself  under  the  coarse,  thick 
hair. 

Whatever  he  was  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  man 
must  have  had  a  soft,  warm  place  in  his  heart  for  this 
little,  brown,  quaint,  small-faced  girl,  for  he  answered  her 
look  :  "  Pooh,  child  !  'taint  nothin' ;  didn't  mind  it  as 
much  as  you  would  the  scratch  of  a  pin ;  don't  go  to 
lookin'  scared  now." 

"  But,  0  Hardy,  it  might  have  killed  you  !  "  draw- 
ing close  to  him  and  shuddering  all  over,  a  sob  held 
down  under  the  words 

"  'Most  wish  they  had  !  "  said  the  man  doggedly,  the 
hard,  sullen  look  coming  over  the  face,  and  making  its 
homeliness  fairly  repulsive  now. 

Berry  drew  close  to  her  brother  and  laid  her  small, 
thin,  brown  fingers  in  his  huge  paw.  I  think  the  soft, 
clinging  touch  went  down  to  that  tender  place  in  the 
man's  heart. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Hardy.  What  would  become  of 
me?  "  her  lips  trembling  all  through  the  words. 

The  man  moved  uneasily.  "Don't  see  as  I'm  likely 
to  be  of  much  use  to  you.  now  I'm  turned  off." 

They  were  dreadful  words  in  the  girl's  ears.  "  Out 
of  work  "  meant  cold,  hunger,  misery  of  every  kind  to 
her.  It  made  the  warm,  bounding,  girlish  heart  sink 
within  her  as  only  that  of  the  miserably  poor  could  sink, 
and  her  voice  —  it  seemed  a  single  throb  of  sharp  pain 
—  broke  right  out  with,  "0  Hardy,  hotf  could  you 
fight?  It  was  such  a  dreadful  wicked  thing  !  " 


14  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

The  man  winced  under  the  words.  Yet  he  was  either 
thoroughly  hardened  or  mostly  innocent,  his  face 
changed  so  little. 

I  think  an  unbiassed  listener  would  have  slowly  in- 
clined to  the  latter  opinion,  as  the  workman's  story  came 
out,  little  by  little. 

In  justice  to  the  man,  he  related  substantially  the 
truth.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  a  desire  to  stand 
clean  in  the  girl's  thought ;  and  that  desire,  though  in 
the  long  run  it  might  be  the  one  strand  which  would 
hold  him  back  from  a  plunge  into  desperate  evil,  made 
him  mollify  his  own  share  in  the  miserable  quarrel ;  and 
his  account  would  have  differed  materially  from  that 
which  some  of  the  officers  of  the  furnace-works  had  given 
of  the  whole  scene,  with  no  intent  of  unfaiiness  on  their 
part. 

But,  in  justice  to  Hardy  Shumway,  he  meant  to  tell 
the  truth.  Those  clear,  honest  eyes  on  his  face  must,  it 
seemed  to  him,  scare  away  a  lie  from  his  lips. 

The  facts  simply  amounted  to  this  :  Some  of  the  men 
had  taken  a  drink  during  the  noon  interval  and,  re- 
turned to  their  work  in  the  afternoon  a  good  deal  fuddled 
and  pugnacious.  Somebody  set  the  spark  going. 
Whether  it  was  a  sneer  at  creed  or  politics  I  have  for- 
gotten, but  the  bad  blood  was  roused,  and  fierce  disputes 
and  ugly  names  ended,  as  they  usually  do,  in  tumult 
and  blows. 

The  foremen,  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  petty  authority 
which  is  so  aggravating  in  small  natures,  exerted  them- 
selves to  calm  the  riot  in  just  the  way  most  likely  to 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  15 

inflame  it.  It  spread  like  wild-fire  on  every  side,  until 
there  was  a  general  melee,  those  who  did  not  bring  the 
weight  of  fists  to  the  quarrel  exasperating  it  by  their 
tongues. 

A  part  of  the  men  kept  steadily  at  work,  among 
which  was  Hardy  Shumway ;  but  the  excitement  de- 
moralized the  whole  force  at  last,  much  as  a  panic  does 
an  army,  and  there  was  more  or  less  fierce  talking  and 
loud  swearing. 

The  young  man's  blood  getting  hot,  when  one  of  his 
comrades  shouted  to  him  from  the  midst  of  the  fight,  he 
felt  it  his  duty  to  toss  away  his  shovel  and  spring 
gallantly  to  the  rescue. 

A  great,  rough-hewn,  massive  fellow,  his  brain  fired 
by  his  noon  dram,  had  clutched  the  shoulder  of  his 
opponent,  —  a  man  of  far  less  powerful  physique,  —  and 
was  pommelling  him,  perhaps,  a  little  harder  than  the 
other  deserved,  who,  in  his  turn,  was  too  fuddled  to 
bring  what  force  he  had  of  brain  or  muscle  to  his  own 
rescue. 

Hardy's  slow  blood  was  fired  with  what,  in  a  better 
cause,  would  have  been  a  generous  courage  for  his 
friend,  and  the  sledge-hammer  fists  of  the  young  work- 
man did  speedy  execution  on  the  larger  of  the  com- 
batants. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  officers,  finding  the  quarrel  had 
grown  out  of  their  control,  went  for  the  proprietors,  and, 
of  course,  gave  their  own  version  of  the  whole  affair. 
The  owners,  astonished  and  exasperated,  came  upon  the 


16  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXDUET. 

scene,  and  their  presence  succeeded  in  quelling  the 
tumult. 

Then  justice  was  dealt  out,  in  -what,  I  suppose,  is  the 
usual  court-martial  fashion.  Some  examples  must  be 
made.  The  proprietors  honestly  desired  to  punish  the 
guiltiest  parties,  but  a  careful  investigation  would  only 
have  revealed  the  impossibility  of  doing  this  fairly. 

But  Hardy  Shumway's  flushed  face  and  active  fists 
had  been  conspicuous  in  the  fray  at  the  moment  when 
the  masters  came  upon  the  scene,'  and  he  was  accord- 
ingly among  the  two  dozen  men  who  were  singled  out, 
paid,  and,  without  being  allowed  any  opportunity  for 
defence,  summarily  dismissed  from  the  mills. 

Berry  Shumway  drank  in  every  word  of  her  brother's 
story,  and  when  he  was  through  he  stood  to  her  a  grand 
hero.  Had  he  not  sprung  generously  to  the  aid  of  the 
friend  who,  unable  to  defend  himself,  had  shouted  to  her 
brother  ?  and  was  it  Hardy's  fault,  if,  for  his  own  brave, 
tender  heart,  that  could  not  stand  still  and  see  another 
harmed,  he  had  been  classed  and  punished  with  the 
crowd  of  rioters  ? 

For,  whatever  this  man  might  be  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  —  and  by  most  people  he  was  rated  merely  as  a 
rather  coarse-grained,  good-natured,  slow  fellow,  —  he 
was  something  very  different  in  the  bright  eyes  of  Berry 
Shumway. 

To  them,  the  heavy,  slow  figure  and  the  dull  face 
were  never  homely.  She  knew  the  better  side  of  the 
man,  —  the  heart  that  cared  for  and  watched  over  her 
tenderly ;  that  denied  itself  often  to  bring  her  from  the 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  17 

store  a  fresh  melon,  or  a  sweet  orange,  or  a  little  pack- 
age of  candy ;  that  never  let  her  get  up  on  winter 
mornings  to  make  the  fires  ;  and  that  always  saw  the 
wood  was  brought  and  the  water  was  drawn,  because,  to 
use  her  brother's  words,  "Such  little  spindles  as  Berry's 
arms  wasn't  made  for  tuggin'  weights." 

She  knew,  too,  what  pleasant  smiles  the  light-blue 
eyes  held  when  they  opened  on  her  wide,  and  how  the 
man  liked  to  sit  still  and  listen  to  her  foolish  little 
stories  about  what  went  on  at  the  mill  and  among  the 
neighbors,  and  how,  whenever  it  was  not  too  cold, 
Hardy  always  went  out  of  doors  to  smoke  his  pipe  of 
coarse  tobacco,  because  the  smell  sickened  her.  But 
Berry,  with  her  native  bright  wits,  never  suspected 
half  she  was  to  her  brother ;  how  the  memory  of  that 
little  brown  face  was  his  good  angel  by  day  and  by 
night  ;  how  it  kept  his  feet  from  the  grogshop  when  the 
strong,  coarse  appetites  of  the  man  and  the  voices  of  his 
companions  urged  him  there ;  how  the  thought  of  that 
little,  childish  figure,  sitting  at  the  window  of  the  small, 
unpainted  cabin,  darning  his  stockings  or  mending  his 
overcoat,  kept  something  sweet  and  fresh  and  wholesome 
in  the  man's  heart,  —  kept  foul  thoughts  from  his  brain, 
and  coarse,  low  jokes,  such  as  he  too  frequently  heard, 
from  his  lips. 

The  tears  ran  all  over  Berry's  quivering  face  when 
her  brother  had  finished  his  story.  Her  heart  was 
stirred  to  its  depths  with  pity  for  him,  —  with  indigna- 
tion, too,  at  the  injustice  which  he  had  suffered :  — 

"  It  was  so  kind,  so  noble  of  you,  Hardy ;  it  was  just 


18  THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 

like  you;  and  it's  a  burning  shame  —  it  is" — a  sob 
choked  her  here. 

This  was  quite  as  high  praise  as  Hardy  deserved,  for 
it  was  a  question  whether,  after  he  had  entered  into  the 
fray  and  his  blood  been  thoroughly  roused,  he  had  not 
dealt  a  few  blows  on  his  own  account. 

But  perhaps  Hardy  was  not  just  aware  of  this,  and  it 
was  some  consolation  to  stand  as  a  hero  in  anybody's 
eyes. 

"I  could  bear  it  all,  Berry,  if  I  knew  what  was  to 
become  of  us." 

That  was  the  terrible  question  to  be  looked  in  the  face 
by  both  man  and  child,  now  the  one  source  of  supplies 
was  cut  off. 

It  brought  the  old  worry  into  Berry's  face,  and  drove 
the  color  from  her  scarlet  lips.  But  she  had  a  brave 
heart  still.  It  did  not  go  down  into  tears  and  lamenta- 
tions now,  as  older  ones  might. 

"Never  mind,  Hardy;  you  know  there's  my  money 
every  week ;  it  will  carry  us  along  a  spell,  until  some- 
thing better  turns  up." 

A  loud,  short,  bitter  laugh  answered  her.  Then 
Hardy  Shumway  seized  his  sister's  hand  almost  fiercely, 
pulled  up  the  sleeve,  and  placed  the  little,  slender 
brown  thing  by  the  side  of  his  own  big,  brawny  muscles. 

"  Look  at  these  !  "  he  said.  "  That  looks  mighty 
like  takin'  care  of  such  a  great  strappin'  fellow  as  I  am, 
don't  it?  It's  a  strong  reed  for  a  stout  man  to  lean  on 
for  his  daily  bread  and  his  roof  at  night !  Don't  talk  to 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY.  19 

rue  like  that,  child ;  "  and  he  threw  the  arm  away  with 
a  kind  of  fierceness,  partly  anger,  partly  tenderness. 

"  You'll  get  somethin'  to  do  —  I  know  you  will. 
Don't  give  up,  Hardy,"  still  holding  to  her  office  of 
comforter,  and  thinking  herself  that  three  dollars  a 
week,  which  was  all  her  factory  wages  amounted  to, 
would  have  to  be  drawn  out  very  thin  in  order  to  sup- 
port two  people. 

"  Where's  it  to  come  from?"  the  flash  of  fierceness 
going  down  in  sullen  moodiness.  "If  it  was  spring  or 
harvestin',  I  might  hire  out  among  some  of  the  farmers 
for  a  while,  but  it's  jist  the  worst  time  o'  year,  — winter 
comin'  on,  and  nobody  wants  hands  now." 

That  was  the  truth,  • —  the  bare,  unadorned,  bitter 
truth.  Berry  knew  it  in  her  soul.  Her  hope  staggered 
and  sank  down  for  a  moment ;  then  it  brightened  up 
again :  — 

"  Anyway,  there's  a  God,  you  know,  Hardy,  and  he's 
good,  and  I  don't  believe  he'll  let  any  great  trouble 
come  to  you.  just  because  you  tried  to  do  what  was  right 
and  help  somebody  else.  If  you'd  gone  into  the  fight, 
now,  on  your  own  account,  it  would  be  different.  I 
don't  believe  things  will  be  as  bad  as  they  seem,"  some 
warmth  and  courage  shining  out  of  the  child's  face. 

Hardy  looked  at  it.  If  he  could  not  cling  to  that 
child's  arm,  he  could  to  something  in  her,  stronger  and 
steadier  than  that. 

His  face  brightened  a  little  from  its  sullen  gloom. 
"  I  hope  you're  in  the  right,  Berry,''  getting  up  and 
taking  down  his  pipe. 


20  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

Berry  went  up  to  her  little  closet  of  a  room  and  took 
off  her  things  with  a  dreadful  ache  at  her  heart,  yet  it 
had  been  so  light  only  an  hour  ago ! 

"  There  was  the  plaid  shawl  and  the  pretty  new 
bonnet,  — they  must  be  given  up  now,"  crushing  down 
a  sigh,  and  the  tears  coming  into  her  eyes.  She  had 
set  her  heart  on  them,  poor  Berry  !  and  now  the  money 
must  go  for  bread  to  eat  and  wood  to  burn. 

She  thought  of  what  had  happened  to  her  coming 
home  that  night,  and  at  first  concluded  she  would 
tell  Hardy,  but  then  there  was  no  knowing  how  he 
would  take  it  in  his  present  unhappy  mood. 

After  turning  it  over  in  her  mind  a  few  moments,  the 
girl  concluded  to  wait ;  but  if  Berry  Shumway  could 
have  looked  up  the  future  and  seen  all  the  wrong  and 
crime  and  misery  that  her  story  would  have  averted,  —  if 
she  could  only  have  looked ;  but  all  she  saw  was  what 
everybody  sees,  the  high  blank  wall  of  the  future  rising 
before  her! 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  LONG,  low  stone  house,  that  has  a  slightly  foreign 
look  about  it,  set  down  there  in  some  north-eastern  cor- 
ner of  New  England,  the  rooms  spreading  wide  upon  the 
ground,  and  verandas  and  balconies,  just  suggesting  a 
Swiss  cottage  to  you. 

It  is  a  solitary  dwelling,  and  the  hills  look  down  on  it 
from  every  side,  yet  the  whole  effect  is  wonderfully 
homelike  and  pleasant. 

There  is  a  deep  bay-window  on  one  side  of  the  house, 
crowded  with  green  plants  and  rare  blossoms ;  and  a 
bird's  cage  —  a  gilded,  beautiful  prison,  but  still  a 
prison  —  hangs  among  them. 

The  grounds  are  full  of  young  shrubs,  and  the  stone 
wall  has  an  interval  of  rustic  gates.  Altogether,  the 
place  has  an  air  of  newness,  but  everything  is  substantial 
and  homelike,  as  though  it  had  stood  there  for  gener- 
ations, 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  woman  comes  out  of  the  door 
and  walks  up  and  down  the  broad  veranda  in  the  brisk 
air. 

Look  at  her ;  she  moves  rapidly,  and  yet  with  a  cer- 
tain elegance  of  motion  which  would  strike  you  in  a 
crowd. 


22  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY. 

She  is  tall  and  rather  slender,  and  she  has  been  called 
a  beautiful  woman  so  often  that  she  would  hardly  be 
flattered  now  at  hearing  her  own  praise,  but  would  ac- 
cept it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Her  face  —  artists  have  called  it  a  Greek  face  —  has 
a  rare  delicacy  and  purity  of  outline,  and  the  large  eyes 
are  of  a  dark,  dazzling  brown ;  and  you  would  have  .to 
know  them  long  to  know  all  their  possibilities  of  softness 
and  splendor. 

Much  the  same  thing  might  be  said  of  the  sweetness 
of  the  mouth,  for  this  face  is  not  one  that,  like  too  many 
other  faces,  beautiful  at  first  sight,  disappoints  and  wearies 
you.  Contour  and  color  are  not  its  chief  charm.  It  has 
expression  and  variety. 

A  proud  woman  :  you  see  that  by  the  bearing  of  the 
head,  by  the  whole  carriage  as  she  sweeps  back  and 
forth.  A  resolute,  high-spirited,  sensitive  woman  ;  you 
see  that  also  in  every  glance  and  motion,  —  see  it  in  her 
absolute  rest  even. 

Whatever  this  woman's  faults  may  be,  weakness  and 
infirmity  of  purpose  are  not  of  them.  She  is  not  very 
young,  —  far  past  the  dew  and  budding  of  mere  girlhood, 
evidently. 

She  arouses  your  interest,  your  curiosity,  as  you  watch 
her  going  back  and  forth  with  the  winds  plucking  feebly 
at  her  dark  hair ;  and  you  think  of  grand  and  beautiful 
women  you  have  read  about,  of  Shakespeare's  Portia,  and 
"Winthrop's  Ellen,  and  Thackeray's  Ethel. 

The  lady  evidently  enjoys  the  solemn,  wild  gloom  of 
the  landscape.  She  looks  off  to  the  bare  hills  and  her 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  23 

face  kindles,  and  then  down  the  valley  to  the  great 
smelting  furnace,  where  the  red  lights  are  beginning  to 
glow. 

Everywhere  the  trees  are  bare  now,  for  it  is  close 
on  winter,  and  though  the  season  has  been  unusually 
mild,  a  soft,  treacherous  moistness  lingering  in  the  air, 
yet  there  have  been  light  falls  of  snow,  and  to-night 
there  is  the  promise  of  a  different  sort,  for  the  wind  blows 
in  from  the  distant  sea  with  a  raw  chill,  and  overhead 
the  clouds  muster  in  thick  black  columns,  and  not  so 
much  as  a  single  star  looks  down  on  that  wild,  lonely, 
solemn  scene  with  the  red  lights  glaring  in  the  Furnace. 
Some  women  of  weaker  nerves  would  shudder  and  go  in 
side,  where  there  is  so  much  warmth  and  grace,  luxury 
even.  This  woman  does  not.  She  likes  the  solemn 
power  of  the  scene,  the  storming  of  gusts  of  wind  in  the 
bare  forest,  and  their  low,  menacing  howl  along  the  valley. 
It  fairly  stings  her  blood.  She  gazes  up  and  down  that 
lonely  valley  crowded  in  between  the  hills,  and  her  eyes 
brighten  and  darken  splendidly  out  of  the  fine  face. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  came  just  on  the  edge  of  the 
winter  to  visit  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Eleanor  Whitmarsh, 
whose  husband  is  the  head  proprietor  of  the  Tuxbury 
Mills  and  Iron  Works.  The  two,  totally  unlike  as  they 
were,  had  been  the  warmest  of  friends  from  their  childhood, 
although  circumstances  had  thrown  them  much  apart  of 
late  years.  Marjorie,  indeed,  had  never  met  her  cousin's 
husband  until  this  visit  to  Tuxbury.  She  came  pre- 
pared not  to  like  him.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  the 
marriages  of  her  dearest  friends  must  always  disappoint 


24  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

her,  and  Eleanor's,  of  course,  would  not  form  an  excep- 
tion. In  this  case,  however,  the  disappointment  proved 
a  happy  one. 

John  Whitmarsh  was  no  hero  nor  ideal  man,  certainly ; 
but  there  was  a  sturdy  manliness  about  him,  a  frank, 
hearty  good-nature,  that  attracted  the  young  lady.  The 
two  became  excellent  friends,  although  Mr.  Whitmarsh 
had  before  the  arrival  of  Miss  Carruthers  a  secret  feeling 
that  he  should  not  fancy  her ;  but  this  he  never  hinted 
even  to  his  wife. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  came  to  Tuxbury  to  see  her  cousin 
and  have  a  little  rest,  —  a  word  which  she  hardly  under- 
stood except  in  name,  for  her  whole  life  had  been  one  of 
varying  excitement  and  gayety. 

She  had  been  indulged,  petted,  and  flattered  from  her 
birth  in  a  way  that  would  have  spoiled  a  dozen  women, 
and  it  had  hurt  her  sufficiently.  People  said  she  was 
haughty,  imperious,  restless ;  and  they  told  the  truth. 
She  was  all  that,  and  a  good  deal  more  that  was  not  very 
lovely. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  her,  and  that  was  a 
most  tender,  sweet,  loyal,  womanly  one.  Eleanor  Whit- 
marsh knew  it,  and  so  did  everybody  else  who  got  into 
Miss  Carruthers'  heart.  There  were  no  mean  faults 
about  her.  If  she  was  haughty,  it  was  among  her 
equals.  Her  inferiors  in  social  position  always  liked 
her.  Those  who  worked  for  her  invariably  bore  testi- 
mony to  her  kindness  and  generosity.  She  had  been  an 
orphan  from  her  earliest  remembrance ;  and  brought  up 
by  her  mother's  brother,  whom,  in  some  respects,  she 


THE  MILLS   Of  TVXBURT.  25 

resembled,  though  in  all  her  finer  traits  she  was  his 
superior.  Marjorie's  uncle  had  been  as  indulgent  as  the 
most  idolatrous  of  parents,  for  in  all  the  world  she  was 
the  only  thing  whom  the  man  really  loved ;  and  as  for 
Marjorie,  she  adored  him. 

The  man  had  not  much  faith  in  his  kind ;  he  showed 
a  hard,  cynical,  sarcastic  front  to  the  world.  As  for 
religion,  he  held  it  mostly  as  a  compound  of  superstition 
and  hypocrisy,  and  quoted  French  Philosophy  and  Ger- 
man Rationalism  at  his  club.  But  the  memory  of  Mar- 
jorie's mother  always  checked  the  sneer  on  the  man's  lips 
when  he  spoke  to  that  child  of  what  had  been  her 
mother's  faith.  Still  it  was  hardly  possible  that  a  brain 
as  swift  and  keen  as  the  child's  should  not  penetrate  to 
the  core  of  his  opinions,  no  matter  how  carefully  he 
might  attempt  to  disguise  them. 

Marjorie's  uncle  was  a  scholar,  and  he  had  spared  no 
pains  to  cultivate  the  girl's  mind.  Books,  the  best  of 
masters,  the  choicest  social  advantages,  had  gone  to  the 
making  up  of  Marjorie  Carruthers'  youth. 

Her  uncle's  means,  although  they  were  not  nearly  so 
large  as  the  world  gave  him  credit  for,  still  enabled  him 
to  surround  his  niece  with  every  grace  and  luxury ; 
and  when  the  girl  grew  older,  both  being  fond  of  travel- 
ling, they  passed  a  large  part  of  their  time  abroad. 

Of  course,  so  beautiful  and  attractive  a  woman  could 
not  fail  to  have  numerous  admirers.  They  might  have 
been  trebled  had  the  girl  been  a  coquette ;  but,  though 
she  was  fond  of  admiration,  expected  it  as  her  right, 
just  as  a  queen  does  homage,  there  was  a  native  honor 


26  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

and  honesty  in  the  girl  which  would  not  permit  her  to 
trifle  with  the  feelings  of  any  human  being.  Then,  she 
had  made  up  her  mind,  for  her  uncle's  sake,  never  to 
marry.  She  knew  the  man  thoroughly,  —  his  idiosyn- 
crasies, prejudices,  and  all  she  was  to  him,  and  what  it 
must  cost  his  proud,  exclusive  nature  to  see  another  man 
with  claims  on  her  time,  thought,  affections,  superior  to 
his  own.  Marjorie  heroically  resolved  to  devote  her  life 
to  the  uncle  who  had  given  so  much  to  her. 

Marjorie  held  to  her  covenant,  and  in  truth,  though 
many  men  crossed  her  path,  not  one  tempted  her  to 
break  it.  Sometimes  her  fancy  was  touched,  her  tastes 
gratified,  but  the  feeling  went  no  farther. 

She  had  passed  her  twenty-fifth  summer  when  a  storm 
broke  suddenly  into  a  life  that  love  and  indulgent  care 
had  made  like  one  of  those  radiant  June  days  into  whose 
perfectness  the  May  ripens  and  dies. 

While  they  were  abroad,  Marjorie's  uncle  contracted 
a  fever  during  a  journey  through  Spain,  and  died  sud- 
denly. He  had  passed  far  up  into  his  sixties,  but  he 
seemed  still  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood. 

The  possibility  of  his  ever  leaving  her  had  hardly 
crossed  Marjorie's  mind. 

It  seemed  at  first  as  though  the  suddenness  of  the 
blow  would  kill  the  girl ;  indeed,  she  wished  it  would, 
in  that  first,  stunned,  inconsolable  grief. 

Marjorie  did  not  return  to  her  native  land  until  more 
than  a  year  after  the  death  of  her  uncle,  dreading  the 
old  scenes  and  associations,  which  must  remind  her  of 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  27 

him,  mourned  as  few  parents  are  mourned  by  their  chil- 
dren. 

Her  uncle's  will  had  bequeathed  his  entire  property 
to  his  niece,  but  he  had  been  a  careless  financier,  and 
his  tastes  had  always  been  extravagant  and  made  great 
inroads  into  his  wealth. 

Marjorie  Carruthers,  instead  of  being  left  a  great 
heiress,  as  everybody  fancied  she  would  be,  had  in  the 
end  a  very  moderate  fortune;  sufficient,  it  is  true,  to 
preserve  her  independence,  but  involving  a  good  many 
sacrifices  of  the  elegant  luxury  to  which  she  had  been 
accustomed. 

Although  she  was  sincerely  fond  of  her  cousin,  Miss 
Carruthers  did  not  look  forward  with  any  sanguine  an- 
ticipations to  this  visit,  in  such  an  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  the  world  as  Tuxbury,  between  the  sea  and 
the  lonely  New  England  hills.  Eleanor  might  write 
glowing  descriptions  of  her  home  and  the  scenery,  but 
Marjorie  Carruthers  put  very  little  faith  in  the  couleur- 
de-rose  landscapes  of  a  woman  who  was  so  deeply  in 
love  with  her  husband  that  a  desert  and  a  cabin  in  his 
society  would  be  fairer  than  a  bower  in  Eden  without 
him. 

Marjorie  wanted  to  see  her  cousin,  however,  and  at 
last  concluded  to  brave  even  Tuxbury  for  that  purpose. 
The  visit,  intended  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  had  already 
expanded  into  more  than  two  months,  and  still  the  girl 
remained.  The  lonely  home  among  the  hills  had  proved 
the  most  delightful  change  and  rest  to  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers. 


28  TBE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

It  had  brought  out  the  best,  softest  side  of  her.  No- 
body was  afraid  of  her  sarcasms  now  ;  and,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  they  could  sting  and  cut  deep  and  smooth 
as  Beatrice's,  upon  occasion.  She  looked  off  with  a 
kind  of  shuddering  reluctance  to  that  great,  gay  world, 
where  her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  many  gifts  had  borne 
their  parts  so  well. 

The  sweetness,  the  quiet,  the  home  peace  entered 
into  the  girl's  soul.  She  loved  the  silence  of  the  hills, 
the  strong,  wild,  solemn  scenery,  the  great  Furnace, 
with  its  red  rows  of  lights  glaring  out  angrily  upon  the 
night.  She  would  sit  for  an  hour  at  her  window  before 
getting  into  bed)  and  watch  it ;  and  at  such  times 
strange  voices  would  seem  to  come  and  whisper  to  her 
soul,  ' '  What  have  you  been  doing  all  your  life,  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers  ?  What  are  you  living  for  now?" 
Such  meanings  seemed  to  haunt  the  hills  and  the  val- 
leys, and  grow  distinct  away  from  the  blare  of  the  great 
world  she  had  left  behind. 

Marjorie  had  been  a  guest  at  Tuxbury,  for  a  short 
time,  with  only  Eleanor  and  her  husband  and  the  baby 
for  society,  when  there  was  an  addition  to  the  family  in 
the  shape  of  the  host's  younger  brother,  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh. 

Marjorie  was  secretly  anything  but  pleased  at  the 
prospect  of  his  coming,  but  she  found  the  young  man 
quite  unlike  her  previous  conception  of  him,  whatever 
that  may  have  been  ! 

He  had  his  faults,   this  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,    and 


TELE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  29 

you  will  be  likely  to  find  them  out  before  my  story  is 
done. 

The  young  man  and  woman  brought  together  out  of 
the  great  world,  where  each  had  played  their  part,  found 
plenty  of  points  of  mutual  interest. 

Both  had  travelled  over  the  same  ground,  and  had,  it 
appeared,  a  good  many  tastes  in  common,  for  they  talked 
of  foreign  lands,  books  and  pictures  together,  until  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh,  who  had  never  been  abroad  and  was  not  a 
brilliant  scholar,  declared  that  between  Ben  and  Mar- 
jorie  her  poor  little  box  of  a  brain  was  wholly  upset. 

The  young  man  had  led  a  somewhat  knight-errant 
life,  and  it  was  his  elder  brother's  strong  desire  that 
Ben  should  become  a  partner  in  the  Tuxbury  works. 
The  latter  did  not  take  very  kindly  to  the  prospect  of 
settling  himself  down  to  business,  having  led  not  pre- 
cisely a  life  of  elegant  ease,  —  his  temperament  was  too 
active  and  adventurous  for  that, —  but  one  of  absolute 
liberty. 

During  this  visit,  however,  it  had  seemed  to  his 
brother  that  Ben's  prejudices  against  settling  down  to 
business  were  giving  way,  especially  as  a  partnership  in 
the  firm  would  not  involve  that  sedulous  devotion  to 
business  which  the  young  man  insisted  would  absorb  all 
the  sap  of  his  nature,  leaving  him  richer  perhaps  by  a 
good  many  thousands,  but  poorer  in  everything  else 
which  made  life  worth  living  for. 

Such  a  view  of  this  world's  goods  met  with  a  small 
share  of  sympathy  from  the  more  practical  elder  brother. 

They  had  been  looking  for  Ben  Whitmarsh  all  that 


30  THK   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

day.  He  had  gone  to  New  York,  and  his  brother  had 
telegraphed  to  him  to  bring  up  a  large  sum  of  money  to 
pay  off  the  hands  next  day.  John  seemed  a  little  an- 
noyed at  supper  that  the  young  man  had  not  arrived, 
and  said  it  would  be  slow  work. for  anybody  to  get  Ben 
to  work  in  business  grooves. 

Marjorie  looked  up  the  road,  and  saw  how  dark  it  was 
growing,  and  gathered  her  shawl  around  her  with  a 
little  shiver. 

What  a  lonely  ride  Ben  Whitmarsh  would  have  from 
the  adjoining  town,  six  miles  off,  to  the  mills !  There 
was  not  a  single  dwelling  on  the  road,  and  if  it  should 
be  known  that  the  young  man  had  gold  about  him  ! 
There  were  desperate  men  among  the  hands :  she  re- 
called now  something  she  had  heard  when  she  first 
came  to  Tuxbury  about  a  fight  they  had  had  among  the 
workmen  at  the  Furnace. 

What  if  some  of  those  very  men  should  attack  young 
Whitmarsh  in  one  of  the  lonely  places  on  the  road ! 
What  chance  would  there  be  for  the  solitary  traveller, 
afar  from  the  sound  of  human  voices  ? 

Marjorie  Carruthers  was  no  coward,  but  she  shud- 
dered now,  and  put  the  thought  away,  straining  her 
eyes  up  the  road  for  the  sight  of  a  figure  on  horseback, 
and  wishing  young  Whitmarsh  would  come,  feeling  a 
little  uneasy  about  his  absence,  and  walking  faster 
than  ever  to  get  rid  of  the  feeling. 

At  last  she  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  for  it  was 
quite  dark  now,  and  the  wide  gloom  and  the  bellowing 
of  winds  began  at  last  to  affect  her  unpleasantly. 


•  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  31 

Just  as  the  girl  reached  the  door,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  caught  the  sound  of  voices  far  up  the  road. 
She  turned  and  walked  to  the  end  of  the  veranda,  and, 
straining  her  eyes  out  into  the  dark,  saw  several  figures 
of  men,  like  gliding  phantoms,  in  the  distance. 

As  they  came  nearer  she  perceived  they  were  carry- 
ing a  heavy  load,  and  at  last  a  red  streak  of  light  from 
the  Furnace  shot  across  the  whole  party.  She  saw  the 
load  was  a  human  figure,  with  some  heavy  black  drapery 
thrown  across  it. 

Marjorie  Carruthers'  heart  stood  still.  She  waited 
there  in  the  night,  on  the  veranda,  paralyzed  with  a 
cold  terror,  her  face  ghastly  white. 

The  crowd  drew  nearer,  figures  coming  out  of  the 
Furnace  buildings  and  gathering  excitedly  about  it. 

At  last  the  crowd  reached  the  great  side  gate,  carry- 
ing their  burden  with  a  slow  care  that  was  frightful  to 
see. 

Then  Marjorie  rushed  out  from  the  veranda  and 
shouted,  "  What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you  carry- 
ing there?  "  and,  holding  up  their  torches,  the  startled 
men  saw  the  white  face  of  the  woman  standing  out  there 
in  the  dark  like  a  spectre. 

Then  some  voice,  grave  and  full  of  pity,  answered, 
"  Go  into  the  house,  ma'am ;  this  isn't  a  place  for  you." 

It  was  one  of  the  foremen  who  spoke,  and  he  came 
forward  and  took  her  arm  and  attempted  to  lead  her 
away ;  and  when  she  looked  in  his  face  and  saw  the 
shock  in  it,  she  stammered,  with  lips  that  seemed  to 
grow  stiff,  "  Will  they  bring  it  in  here?  " 


32  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

"Yes;  this  is  the  place  for  him,"  the  foreman  an- 
swered ;  and  then  she  knew  who  that  covered  burden 
was,  which  the  men  were  bringing  so  carefully  into  the 
house  at  Tuxbury. 


THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  DREADFUL  sickness  went  over  Marjorie  Carruthers ; 
her  hands  caught  and  dragged  desperately  at  the  fore- 
man's arm,  or  she  would  have  dropped  on  the  ground; 
the  pain  for  a  moment  was  like  a  knife  striking  deep  and 
deadly  into  her  heart. 

Then,  with  one  gasp,  the  strong  energies  of  her  will 
rallied, — forced  her  into  swift,  dominant  action.  What- 
ever they  might  say,  she  would  not  believe  that  limp, 
heavy  mass  was  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  her  thought 
cowering  back  affrighted  before  that  one  terrible  mono- 
syllable which  faced  it. 

The  men  had  not  paused  for  any  ceremonies  at  the 
front  door.  They  had  burst  right  into  the  hall,  and 
stood  there  a  moment  with  their  burden,  in  doubt  which 
room  to  enter. 

With  one  glance  Marjorie  Carruthers  took  it  all  in ; 
she  was  nervous  and  irritable  among  the  commonplaces 
of  life,  difficult  to  please,  the  victim  of  fancies  and 
whims,  which  made  those  who  judged  her  superficially 
—  and  few  people  judge  of  their  kind  any  other  way  — 
suppose  that  she  would  go  down  under  any  pressure  of 
adverse  fate ;  that  her  place  was  like  the  butterfly's 
in  the  summer  and  the  clover-fields  of  life. 

With  that  glance,  Marjorie's  thought,   like  a  single 


34  THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

flash  of  lightning  that  bares  the  wide  landscape,  took  in 
the  whole  position  of  affairs. 

She  saw  Eleanor  Whitmarsh  just  as  Marjorie  had 
seen  her  cousin  when  the  girl  looked  in  a  moment  on  the 
bedroom  before  going  out  on  her  solitary  walk.  The 
whole  picture  stood  before  her  now.  The  young  mother 
with  her  babe  in  her  arms,  having  a  very  riot  of  fun 
with  him,  for  the  boy  was  in  such  a  high  glee  that  night 
that  he  could  not  go  to  sleep. 

How  pretty  the  two  looked!  The  grouping  had 
struck  Marjorie  at  the  time,  for  her  naturally  keen  in- 
sight of  form  and  color  had  been  quickened  by  whole 
days  of  luxurious  dreaming  among  the  master-pieces  of 
the  Old  World. 

She  saw  now  the  small,  sweet  face  all  alive  and  flushed 
with  its  frolic  —  the  little  dimples  of  fingers  clutching 
awkwardly  after  the  mother's  pretty  hair.  She  saw 
Eleanor  look  up,  who,  on  perceiving  the  shawled  figure 
at  the  door,  had  over  some  jest  about  the  "Robed  sybil 
and  her  nightly  invocation  to  the  stars,"  with  other 
pretty  nonsense  of  that  sort. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  ready  for  any  amount  of  freaks 
and  oddities  in  her  cousin,  and  ready  to  indulge  them, 
too,  to  any  extent. 

Marjorie  had  always  been  the  most  unaccountable,  as 
well  as  the  most  fascinating,  of  mortals,  in  the  eyes  of 
Eleanor  Whitmarsh ;  and  that  night  the  girl  had  gone 
across  the  room  and  kissed  the  mother  and  her  baby 
before  she  went  out  to  her  solitary  walk.  It  was  a  rare 
demonstration  with  her. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  35 

Perhaps  Marjorie  had  unconsciously  carried  the  color 
and  warmth  of  that  little  home  scene  as  a  kind  of  hack- 
ground  to  all  her  thoughts  that  evening.  At  any  rate, 
it  came  up  before  her  at  this  terrible  juncture,  distinct 
and  vivid  as  when  she  closed  the  door  on  it. 

Eleanor  was  a  fragile  creature  at  best.  If  they 
should  break  in  upon  her  of  a  sudden  with  that  horrible 
sight,  it  might  kill  her. 

In  a  moment  Miss  Carruthers  stood  among  the  men. 
I  think  the  white,  set  face  had  something  just  then  of 
the  power  which  Joan  of  Arc  must  have  worn  when  she 
led  the  charge  on  that  old  battle-ground  of  Compeigne. 

"Stop  one  moment;"  the  words  clear  and  low,  but 
the  instinct  of  authority  in  each  syllable,  in  the  solitary 
gesture  of  her  hand ;  and  then  she  turned  toward  the 
room  where  she  had  left  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

At  the  door  Marjorie  met  her  cousin,  who  had  heard 
the  tramp  of  feet  in  the  hall.  In  the  sudden  silence 
that  followed  she  came  forward,  perplexed  and 
frightened. 

"  0  Marjorie,  what  is  the  matter?  "  she  stammered. 

"  Go  back,  Eleanor,  go  back,"  pushing  her  into  the 
room,  and  shutting  the  door  before  the  lady  could  glance 
out  into  the  hall. 

Then  Marjorie  stood  still,  and  the  white  faces  of  the 
women  looked  at  each  other.  "Eleanor,  a  terrible 
thing  has  happened,  and  there  is  no  time  to  soften  the 
news  ;  can  you  bear  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  staggered,  and  everything  swam 
before  her.  Then  she  sprang  to  her  cousin's  side  with  a 


36  THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURT. 

horror  in  her  wide  eyes  that  even  at  that  moment 
appalled  the  girl.  "Is  it  my  husband?''  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  No,  Eleanor."  Seeing  the  flash  of  relief  on  the 
other's  face,  she  added,  quickly,  "  But  it  is  his  brother, 
and  they  must  bring  him  in  here." 

Marjorie  had  kept  her  hand  fast  on  the  door-handle 
during  the  few  seconds  in  which  this  talk  had  been 
going  on  ;  then  she  opened  the  door  and  made  a  sign  for 
the  men  to  enter,  and  they  came  in  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh 
saw  — 

One  would  have  said,  knowing  the  two  women  in 
ordinary  life,  that  the  young  matron  would  have  faced 
any  terrible  conjunction  of  circumstances  with  more 
nerve  than  her  cousin.  But  the  former  succumbed  at 
that  sight  now,  cowered,  and  wrung  her  hands  helplessly. 
It  was  Marjorie  who  pointed  the  men  to  the  bedroom 
that  opened  out  of  the  library,  where  the  two  women 
stood,  though  her  lips  grew  stiff  when  she  tried  to 


"Oh,  is  Ben  dead  — is  Ben  dead?"  shrieked  his 
sister-in-law. 

Marjorie  turned  her  blazing  eyes  upon  her  cousin  : 
"  No,  I  tell  you,  no  !  Don't  mind  what  they  say.  He 
is  not  dead  !  "  the  words  tearing  themselves  fiercely  out 
of  her  dry  throat,  and  then  she  walked  straight  into  the 
bedroom,  not  sparing  her  eyes  from  the  worst. 

They  had  lain  the  man  on  the  bed  now  and  removed 
the  covering  from  his  face,  and  the  snowy  linen  was 
already  mottled  with  blood.  It  was  a  sickening  spec- 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  37 

tacle.  Everything  grew  dark  before  the  poor  girl's  eyes 
for  a  moment,  and  she.  caught  at  the  nearest  chair. 
Then  she  compelled  herself  to  look  at  the  face  on  the 
pillow.  She  saw  the  long,  cruel  bruise  slanting  down 
from  the  forehead  to  the  temple.  Benjamin  Whitmarsh 
was  not  a  man  to  die  without  a  struggle. 

She  saw  the  rigid  face,  and  the  shadow  upon  it  seemed 
the  shadow  which  falls  sooner  or  later  upon  all  faces. 

They  had  torn  away  the  coat  too ;  there  was  the  long, 
ragged  wound  which  the  ball  had  made,  tearing  in  just 
above  the  clavicle,  so  frightfully  close  to  the  jugular  vein, 
and  the  blood  was  oozing  o\t  in  a  slow,  red  stream  :  it 
had  been  for  hours. 

The  men  stood  around,  a  dumb,  horrified  group,  for 
one  moment.  Then  one  of  them  spoke  :  — 

"  He  was  a  dead  man  afore  we  found  him.  That 
bullet  did  the  work  —  poor  fellow  !  "  and  the  ashen  face 
and  the  lifeless  hands  dropping  down  confirmed  the  fear- 
ful words. 

But  they  only  stung  Marjorie  Carruthers  into  a  hot 
defiance.  It  was  strange  how  that  awful  moment,  that 
had  unstrung  those  hard,  coarse  men,  nerved  the  heart 
and  steeled  the  brain  of  the  delicate  woman.  She 
turned  fiercely  upon  the  man. 

"  Who  knows  he  is  dead  ?  "  she  cried.  "  What  right 
have  you  to  say  that  before  a  surgeon  has  ? ' '  Then 
catching  sight  of  a  flask  of  brandy  which  stood  on  the 
mantle,  she  caught  it  up  and  tried  to  pour  part  of  its 
contents  through  the  man's  lips,  which  were  slightly 
apart.  After  that  it  was  wonderful  how  this  girl, 


38  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

whose  extremely  sensitive  organization  had  always  been 
a  matter  of  anxiety  to  her  friends,  took  the  lead  and 
gave  her  orders,  the  coarse  group  of  men  following  them 
without  a  question. 

She,  who  had  always  sickened  at  the  sight  of  blood, 
sopped  it  away  from  the  wound  under  the  neck  with  her 
own  hands,  and  then  actually  closed  the  seam  with  her 
fingers,  through  which  occasionally  a  red  jet  made  her 
turn  faint  to  her  heart's  core  ;  but  still  her  fingers  kept 
their  place  firmly,  holding  back,  she  told  herself,  the 
last  spark  of  life  in  the  body  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh. 

Yet  not  one  of  that  group  of  men  had  so  much  as  a 
doubt  that  the  set  face  would  ever  move  again.  But  no 
one  ventured  to  call  in  question  Marjorie's  orders,  and 
she  gave  them  in  brief  whispers.  She  despatched  one 
for  a  surgeon,  another  for  hot  water ;  and  every  few 
moments,  at  a  sign  from  the  girl,  they  poured  spirits 
between  the  white  lips  of  the  man,  not  daring  to  tell  her 
again  how  hopeless  it  was  — that  the  poor  fellow  was 
dead  as  the  stones  on  which  they  had  found  him. 

There  he  lay  with  his  thick,  long  hair  tangled  about 
his  face,  —  his  face  which  was  sculptured  in  some  fine- 
ness and  grace  it  had  never  seemed  to  own  in  life,  —  and 
Marjorie  Carruthers  bent  down  over  him,  her  own  as 
ashen  white,  and  some  fierceness  in  it  which  awed  the 
others  as  they  turned  from  the  dead  man  to  the  living 
woman. 

Some  desperate  power  outside  of  herself  seemed  to 
enter  into  the  soul  of  this  girl.  She  would  have  the  life 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  39 

of  this  man  —  drag  it  back  from  the  cold  clutch  which 
Death  had  already  made  on  it. 

Long  afterward,  Marjorie  questioned  solemnly  with 
her  own  soul  whether  once  during  that  awful  time  she 
had  called  upon  God,  even  so  much  as  thought  of  him, 
and  she  could  not  tell. 

Her  whole  being  was  in  revolt  at  Death.  He  was  the 
Force  with  which  she  fought  that  battle,  moment  by 
moment,  —  no  pulse  in  the  wrists,  no  faint  quiver  of  life 
in  the  muscles  of  the  white,  still  face  below  her. 

It  was  wonderful  —  it  seemed  hardly  less  than  a 
miracle  —  how  clear  and  prompt  that  girl's  brain  was 
through  all  that  time ;  how  she  ordered  just  the  right 
restoratives;  did  just  the  best  things  possible  to  keep 
the  life,  if  so  be  it  lingered,  in  one  fluttering,  imper- 
ceptible pulse  of  the  breast  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh ; 
her  fingers  closing  with  a  desperate  tightness  upon  his 
wound,  the  wide,  dry,  bright  splendors  of  her  eyes 
gazing  up  all  the  time  in  the  face  of  that  gaunt,  mock- 
ing Death,  they  saw  coming  to  claim  its  own,  —  the  life 
that  she  would  not  yield  up  to  him. 

In  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  came  in  and 
ranged  herself  by  her  cousin's  side;  but,  though  she 
made  the  effort,  the  little  woman  was  too  thoroughly 
overwhelmed  at  this  crisis  to  be  of  much  service. 

She  had  little  doubt  in  her  own  mind  that  Ben  was 
what  the  men  told  her,  —  found  murdered  by  the  road- 
side, that  night,  less  than  three  miles  from  Tuxbury. 

The  baby,  waked  by  the  strange  noises,  commenced 
crying  lustily,  but  his  mother  never  once  went  to  soothe 


40  THE   MILLS   OP  TUXBURT. 

him.  She  could  only  think  of  her  husband,  and  that 
it  was  Ben  who  lay  there,  and  stand  by  her  cousin  and 
shiver. 

Meanwhile,  a  great  crowd  had  gathered  about  the 
house ;  but  Miss  Carruthers  had  given  orders  that  nobody 
should  be  admitted  until  Mr.  Whitmarsh  or  the  sur- 
geon returned.  Everybody  obeyed  her,  and  this  order 
was  enforced  like  all  the  others,  but  curious,  horrified  faces 
blocked  every  window,  if  she  had  cared  to  look  up  and 
see  them. 

The  time  seemed  ages  before  either  host  or  surgeon 
arrived,  although  it  was  less  than  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  that  Marjorie  held  her  watch  for  life  or  death  at 
.the  bedside. 

Mr.  Whitmarsh  had  ridden  out  some  miles  to  a  new 
forge,  which  was  in  process  of  building,  and  the  tidings 
did  not  reach  him  until  he  was  on  his  way  back. 

The  surgeon,  too,  was  just  returning  from  a  remote 
professional  visit,  and  the  news  of  the  murder  found  him 
on  his  way  home  ;  so  the  brother  and  the  doctor  met  at 
the  front  door  together,  the  crowd  having  made  a  wide 
opening  for  them  to  pass  through. 

"  0  John !  "  At  the  sight  of  her  husband's  face 
at  the  door,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh's  shriek  made  Marjorie 
turn  her  head  quickly.  She  never  forgot  the  look  in 
the  man's  eyes  as  they  met  hers,  —  the  shock  and  agony  ; 
for,  next  to  his  wife  and  child,  that  younger  brother  of 
his  had  been  the  dearest  thing  on  earth  to  the  heart  of 
John  Whitmarsh. 

Then,  just  behind  him  came  the  old  surgeon,  with  his 


THK   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  41 

gray  head  and  his  deep,  alert  eyes,  taking  in  everything 
at  a  glance.  Fortunately  he  was  a  man  of  skill  and 
experience. 

As  Marjorie  caught  sight  of  this  man  her  strength 
gave  out.  She  had  held  Death  at  bay  before  the  others, 
and  at  least  kept  them  from  asserting  their  convictions. 
But  here  was  one  whose  decision  would  be  final.  All 
the  hard,  fierce  defiance  with  which  she  had  held  her 
ground  with  her  invisible  Enemy  broke  up  now.  The 
\vhite,  stiffened  lips  grew  mobile  again.  "  0  doctor, 
they  say  he  is  dead;  but  I've  tried  to  save  him,  — I've 
tried  !  "  she  cried,  her  fingers,  stained  with  life-blood, 
still  closing  fasH;  upon  the  wound. 

"You've  done  the  right  thing,  my  child,"  answered 
the  old  surgeon,  coming  forward  and  taking  the  wrist 
which  he,  too,  had  small  doubt  was  a  dead  man's  as  he 
caught  sight  of  the  ashen  face  on  the  pillow  ;  while  John 
\Yhitmarsh,  who  had  always  prided  himself  on  his  iron 
nerves,  completely  broke  down  at  the  dreadful  spectacle 
of  his  murdered  brother. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  as  the  doctor  fingered  the 
pulse,  and  then  put  his  ear  down  to  the  chest  and  felt 
about  the  region  of  the  heart,  making  a  sign  to  Marjorie 
not  to  remove  her  fingers. 

At  last  he  lifted  his  head.  Everybody's  breath 
seemed  to  come  thick  and  hard  before  the  man  spoke. 

"  I  perceive  some  faint  signs  of  life  here  still,"  he 
said.  ''  There  is  a  bare  possibility  we  may  save  him." 

A  low,  half-suppressed  cry  of  surprise  and  joy  ran 
about  the  room,  arid  then  the  doctor  took  Marjorie's 


42  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBUXY. 

fingers  from  the  wound ;  a  single  red  jet  of  blood  fol- 
lowed, but  he  stanched  that  quickly,  asking  swift,  brief 
questions  about  what  had  been  done  and  how  long  the 
man  had  lain  there ;  and  in  a  few  moments,  Marjorie, 
out  of  whose  white  lips  there  had  come  no  cry,  saw,  with 
the  others,  a  little  tremor  cross  the  man's  face. 

She  cried  out  sharply  then,  and  staggered  against  the 
doctor.  He  looked  up  in  her  face.  "  Take  that  girl 
away  from  here,"  he  said  sharply. 

"I  did  the  best  I  could, —the  best  I  could,"  she 
kept  moaning  to  herself,  as  though  she  did  not  see  the 
people  around  her. 

"If  the  man  lives,  he  will  owe  his  life  to  you,"  said 
the  surgeon  ;  and  yet  he  only  said  what  everybody  there 
knew  before. 

But  hearing  those  words,  and  waving  John  Whitmarsh 
off  when  he  would  have  helped  her,  Miss  Carruthers 
staggered  out  of  the  room  and  up  to  her  own  chamber. 

As  I  said,  all  through  that  dreadful  crisis  that  had 
just  passed,  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  not  once  called  on 
God,  perhaps  not  once  thought  of  him,  only  of  that 
Death  she  was  facing  and  holding  off  from  his  prey ;  but 
now  she  sank  down  on  her  knees,  and  the  cry  that 
choked  through  her  sobs  was,  "0  my  God,  I  thank 
thee !  " 

It  was  long  after  midnight  before  the  crowd  dispersed, 
full  of  the  cool  barbarity  of  a  deed  that  fairly  stunned  every 
soul  on  first  learning  it,  perpetrated  right  in  their  midst, 
for  young  Whitmarsh  must  have  been  struck  down  less 
than  three  miles  from  the  mills. 


THE  MILLS   OP  TUXBVRY.  43 

Some  half-dozen  workmen  had  been  detained  late  that 
night  at  the  Furnace,  owing  to  a  break  in  the 
machinery.  They  were  on  their  way  home  to  the  settle- 
ment, and  had  just  crossed  the  bridge  beyond  the  woods, 
where  the  road  led  past  Piebald  Rock,  when  one  of  their 
number  suddenly  stumbled  over  a  black  heap  in  his 
path,  and  on  recovering  himself  he  discerned  a  human 
figure  under  his  feet. 

A  shout  brought  the  man's  companions  to  his  side, 
with  a  small  force  of  lanterns  which  had  carried  their 
owners  safely  past  the  gullies  and  hollows  in  the  woods. 

The  men  recognized  their  master's  younger  brother  as 
soon  as  they  turned  up  his  face  to  the  light,  for  of  late 
he  had  been  frequently  about  the  mills ;  and  the  blood 
and  the  scarred  face  told  its  own  story  of  foul  play  to 
the  scared  group  that  shuddered  about  him. 

It  took  the  men  some  time  to  recover  from  the  terrible 
shock  sufficiently  to  deliberate  what  had  best  be  done 
with  the  murdered  man  ;  but  they  concluded  at  last  to 
carry  him  home  to  his  brother. 

A  horse-blanket,  which  one  of  the  company  happened 
to  have  with  him,  was  thrown  over  the  body,  and  in  this 
way  they  had  returned  with  their  awful  freight  to  Tux- 
bury. 

The  young  man  must  have  lain  at  least  two  hours  in 
the  roadside  after  he  had  been  left  there  for  dead. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  the  object  of  his  murderers 
was  robbery,  as  their  victim's  pockets  were  rifled  of  all 
their  contents  ;  but  the  result  must  have  keenly  disap- 
pointed the  expectations  of  the  villains. 


44  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

Meanwhile,  under  the  ceaseless  care  of  the  old  sur- 
geon, who  knew  that  the  man's  life  hung  upon  a  thread, 
heat  and  circulation  were  slowly  returning  to  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh,  but  it  was  quite  dawn  before  the  young  man 
opened  his  eyes  and  gazed  upon  the  faces  about  him,  with 
the  sudden  flash  of  joy  through  all  their  pallor.  Too 
exhausted  with  loss  of  blood  for  motion  or  speech,  he 
probably  had  not  the  faintest  idea  of  what  had  transpired 
to  him. 

But  some  trouble  came  into  his  eyes  as  they  turned 
languidly  from  his  brother's  and  sister's  face  to  the 
surgeon's,  and  the  latter  motioned  Mr.  Whitmarsh  to 
speak.  It  was  hard  work  for  the  elder  brother  to  get 
out  the  words  which  choked  thick  in  his  throat,  for  the 
eyes  that  looked  up  at  him  were  eyes  that,  it  almost 
seemed,  opened  out  of  the  grave. 

'•  Ben,  you  know  me  ?  " 

A  slight  motion  of  the  lips  made  intelligent  answer. 

"  That's  enough,  dear  boy  ! '"'  using  unconsciously  the 
old  home-words  of  their  childhood.  "  You  are  very 
sick ;  you've  met  with  a  serious  accident,  and  you're  not 
to  speak  or  think  about  it  now^  You're  at  home,  and 
we're  going  to  pull  you  through,  provided  you'll  be 
submissive  and  behave  yourself;  above  all,  keep  abso- 
lutely quiet." 

If,  in  his  exhausted  state,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  did 
not  take  in  all  the  words,  he  did  their  meaning  suffi- 
ciently for  his  brother's  purpose.  He  was  too  weak 
still, to  feel  much  curiosity  about  his  present  position,  or 
to  be  more  than  half  conscious  of  it. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  45 

He  went  off  into  a  half  swoon,  half  slumber,  starting 
a  little  at  intervals  with  the  pain  in  his  wound,  which 
the  surgeon  did  not  dare  to  probe  for  the  bullet  while 
his  patient  was  in  his  present  exhausted  condition. 

Dr.  A  very  was  a  short,  thick-set,  heavy,  bluff  sort  of 
man,  with  a  good  deal  of  marked  individuality.  Every- 
body knew  that  under  some  tart  flavor  of  speech  and 
certain  angularities  of  original  constitution  there  was 
a  sound,  mellow  heart,  that  brought  its  own  light 
and  warmth  into  sick-rooms,  and  put  hope  and  spirit 
into  his  patient  when  both  were  failing  him.  His  pow- 
ders might  be  good,  more  than  one  patient  averred,  but 
the  very  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  sight  of  his  face  were 
worth  a  pile  of  them. 

Such  a  man  might  have  made  his  mark  in  the  world, 
but  Tuxbury  was  his  native  home,  and  locality  exercised 
a  dominant  power  over  him.  Perhaps  it  was  a  weak- 
ness. He  sometimes  thought  so  as  the  years  gathered 
upon  him,  but  it  was  too  late  to  break  the  withes  now. 

"You  think  he'll  live,  doctor?"  said  John  Whit- 
marsh,  taking  the  surgeon  into  the  library,  where  the 
cold  early  morning  looked  in  wearily  at  the  window. 
Sky  and  earth  seemed  palsied  now  with  the  burden  of 
the  dying  year  upon  them. 

"I  think  he  will,  the  Lord  willing!"  his  deep-set, 
gray  eyes  twinkling  while  he  rubbed  his  hands  briskly. 
"  But  in  my  experience  of  fifty  years  it's  about  the 
heaviest  sea  over  .which  I  ever  tided  a  human  life." 

"And  you  saved  him,  Dr.  Avery  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh,  who  had  come  in  and  clasped  her  hands  on 


46  THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBURY. 

her  husband's  shoulder  ;  and  her  face  looked  so  pale  and 
pitiful,  so  unlike  the  pretty,  blooming  thing  that  had 
presided  at  the  table  whenever  the  doctor  had  dined  at 
the  Whitmarsh  cottage,  that  it  touched  the  old  man. 

"No,  I  didn't  save  him.  That  girl  upstairs  did  it. 
I  tell  you  there  wasn't  a  moment  to  spare  when  she  took 
hold  of  him.  Two  or  three  more,  his  blood  going  at 
that  rate,  and  he'd  been  a  dead  man,  without  so  much  as 
one  gasp  or  groan.  Did  just  the  right  thing,  too,  — 
stopped  the  blood  and  poured  down  restoratives,  and 
kept  the  life  from  flickering  out  of  him.  You  women 
are  strange  creatures  !  "  turning  to  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 
"Nerves,  hysterics,  freaks,  and  all  of  a  sudden  you'll 
come  out  with  some  grand  heroism,  like  your  cousin  last 
night.  If  that  brother  of  yours  ever  stands  on  his  feet 
again,  Whitmarsh,  he'll  owe  it  to  that  girl's  courage  and 
promptness  in  just  the  nick  of  time." 

"Dear  Marjorie !  I  shall  love  her  better  than 
ever !  "  sobbed  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

"We  shall  be  her  debtors  for  life,"  answered  her 
husband. 

He  was  not  a  man  of  many  words  when  he  felt  deep- 
est, but  his  wife  and  the  doctor  knew  those  came  from 
his  inmost  heart. 

It  was  a  stunned,  bewildered  household  into  which 
Dr.  Avery  had  entered  the  night  before.  Marjorie 
Carruthers  seemed  to  concentrate  in  her  white  face  and 
blazing  eyes  all  the  decision  and  capacity  of  thought  or 
execution  which  the  others  had  lost.  It  was  not  strange 
that  the  suddenness  and  horror  of  the  shock  had  un- 


THE   MILLS   OF  TVXBURY.  47 

nerved  everybody.  But  Dr.  Avery  was  a  man  for 
emergencies,  and  above  all  things,  to  use  his  own  quaint 
words,  he  believed  in  putting  pluck  into  man  or  woman. 
A  few  of  the  old  man's  calm,  steady  words  always  ral- 
lied one's  energies  like  a  trumpet. 

It  was  wonderful  now  how  a  few  sentences  from  him 
calmed  and  strengthened  the  mistress  of  the  house ;  and 
even  her  husband,  who,  now  that  the  imminent  peril 
was  over,  was  fast  regaining  that  mastery  of  himself 
which  had  been  so  cruelly  shaken  the  night  before,  felt 
the  subtle  magnetism  of  the  doctor's  presence,  as  he 
never  would  have  done  in  a  less  strained  and  susceptible 
mood. 

The  first  measure  to  be  taken  was  to  discover  the  per- 
petrators of  the  foul  crime  that  was  already  making  the 
whole  country-side  shudder  with  horror,  and  John  Whit- 
marsh  was  not  a  man  to  leave  any  stone  unturned  there. 

"  I  foresee  a  day's  work  before  you,  Whitmarsh,  but  I 
shan't  allow  you  to  leave  the  house  until  you've  eaten  a 
good  breakfast  of  beefsteak  and  coffee,  and  made  that 
little  pale  wife  of  yours  promise  to  do  the  same,"  said 
Dr.  Avery,  coming  over  and  placing  his  hand  on  the 
lady's  shoulder. 

"  0  doctor,  I  never  can  eat  a  mouthful  again !  "  she 
cried,  with  a  gesture  of  dismay. 

"Yes,  you  will,  my  dear  madam.  Come  now,  it's 
either  a  hearty  breakfast,  or  a  bed  and  cordials  and 
opiates  for  the  next  two  days.  I  give  you  your  choice 
this  moment,  and  you  know  in  my  own  realm  I'm  worse 
than  an  Eastern  despot." 


48  TJJE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

A  little  smile  actually  came  about  the  lady's  white 
lips.  "I  think  I'll  take  the  breakfast,  doctor,"  she 
answered. 

"  That's  my  wise  little  Eleanor,"  said  her  husband, 
taking  the  doctor's  cue.  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  really- 
started  off  to  give  orders  for  the  meal  with  some  show 
of  animation. 

"One  moment,  if  you  please,"  said  the  doctor,  de- 
taining her.  "  How  is  Miss  Carruthers  ?  " 

Ci  The  women  got  her  to  bed,  doctor,  more  dead  than 
alive.  I've  been  upstairs  once  or  twice  since  you 
ordered  the  sleeping-draught,  but  she  only  stared  at  me 
in  a  way  that  was  frightful,  and  never  spoke.  She's 
asleep  at  last." 

"  That  is  well.  I  foresaw  the  reaction  would  be 
terrible  on  a  temperament  like  hers.  I  must  see  her  as 
soon  as  she  wakes.  Royal  woman  that,  when  a  grand 
emergency  brings  out  her  forces." 

The  doctor  went  back  to  his  patient,  and  the  servants, 
who  had  huddled  together  during  the  night,  whispering 
to  each  other  with  shocked  faces,  got  into  their  old 
grooves,  and  the  usual,  blessed  every-day  life  and 
order  soothed  and  braced  once  more  the  household  at  the 
Mills  of  Tuxbury. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  49 


CHAPTER    IV. 

BERRY  looked  up  as  her  brother  shoved  open  the  door 
and  came  in.  She  had  cowered  down  close  to  the 
scanty  fire  and  laid  her  face  in  her  arms  —  her  face,  in 
which  was  a  sort  of  wild  horror  that  quite  quenched  the 
worried  look  which  had  grown  habitual  during  the  last 
week,  sharpening  the  outline,  and  dulling  the  expres- 
sion. 

But  there  was  no  lack  of  life  in  the  face  now,  as  the 
girl  burst  out,  ' '  0  Hardy,  have  you  heard  —  do  you 
know?" 

"Heard  what?"  tramping  heavily  into  the  room, 
and  shaking  off  a  few  snow-flakes  that  clung  to  his  coat. 

"Why,  the  dreadful  murder  night  before  last  on  the 
Mill  Road.  It  was  Mr.  Whitmarsh's  brother  !  " 

"  Murder  !  "  the  word  coming  out  slowly  and  heavily 
from  his  throat.  "  Nobody  was  killed  !  " 

"But  it  was  just  the  same,  Hardy.  It  took  all  my 
strength  away  when  I  heard  it,  and  I've  been  tremblin' 
ever  since  they  were  telling  it  over  down  there  at  the 
grocery.  Oh,  it  was  awful !  "  and  she  shivered,  sitting 
there,  with  her  shawl  arid  hood  trailing-  on  the  floor,  just 
where  she  had  dropped  them. 

"  No  business  to  scare  a  girl  in  that  way,"  exclaimed 
Hardy,  in  a  short,  crusty  tone ;  but  Berry  did  riot  mind 


50  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXDURY. 

that.  She  had  been  used  to  short,  sullen  answers  dur- 
ing all  these  dreadful  weeks  that  Hardy  had  been  out 
of  work. 

"  Then  you  don't  know  —  you  haven't  heard  how  Mr. 
Whitmarsh's  brother  was  taken  up  for  dead  on  the  Mill 
Road  close  by  Piebald  Rock?  He  was  on  horseback,  on 
his  way  to  Tuxbury,  going  at  a  canter,  because  it  was 
late,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  two  men  sprang  right  out 
from  the  woods  and  tried  to  stop  his  horse.  He  was 
a-goin'  to  push  ahead,  and  —  and  —  oh,  there's  so  much 
to  tell,  and  I  haven't  got  it  all  quite  clear ;  but  he  was 
brave,  and  wouldn't  stand  still  and  be  robbed  without  a 
struggle,  though  they  told  him  they  didn't  want  his 
life,  only  his  money.  There  was  a  dreadful  scuffle 
before  they  dragged  him  off  his  horse,  and  one  of  the 
wretches  dealt  him  a  blow  on  the  head  thai  fairly 
stunned  him.  They  thought  that  had  fixed  him,  and 
were  at  his  pockets  in  a  moment,  but  he  made  another 
spring,  and  had  almost  throttled  one  of  the  men  when  he 
held  up  his  pistol  and  fired,  or  it  went  off.  and  they  left 
the  poor  gentleman  lyin'  there  bleedin'  to  death  in  the 
road.  It  was  ever  so  long  before  some  of  the  mill-hands 
came  along  and  stumbled  over  him  in  the  dark  without 
knowin' . 

"  They  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  home,  s'posin' 
all  the  time  he  was  dead ;  and  he  was,  just  the  same, 
though  it  seems  there  was  some  lady  a-visitin'  at  the 
house  who  wouldn't  believe  he  was  quite  gone,  and  she 
just  stopped  the  bleeding  with  her  own  hands,  and  held 
the  wound  tight,  and  made  them  keep  pourin'  things 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  51 

down  his  throat,  when  all  the  rest  was  so  distracted  they 
didn't  know  what  they  was  about  till  the  doctoir  came, 
and  he  says  it  was  that  that  saved  his  life.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  could  see  that  lady!  I  would  just  crawl  a  hundred 
miles  to  thank  her  on  my  knees  for  savin'. -;tliat  pooi, 
dear,  noble  gentleman's  life  !  " 

Berry  had  had  all  the  talk  to  this  animated  peroration, 
to  herself;  the  little  tongue,  shy  and  dumb  as  she  usually 
was  among  strangers,  could  go  with  a  rapid  energy  when 
any  feeling  had  once  fairly  started  it. 

Hardy  Shumway  had  listened,  his  back  partly  turned 
away,  as  he  stood  by  the  table  fumbling  in  the  drawer 
for  a  knife  to  cut  the  cord  which  tied  a  small  package  he 
had  taken  from  his  pocket. 

He  looked  up  now  in  some  surprise  at  his  sister. 
"  The  story  isn't  news  to  me.  I  heard  it  all  down  town," 
he  said,  the  quiet  brevity  of  his  speech  in  strange  con- 
trast with  his  sister's  excited  tone. 

"But  wasn't  it  awful,  Hardy?  Such  a  horrible 
thing  right  in  our  midst !  I  hope  they'll  find  those 
cruel  murderers.  I  could  hang  them  myself!  "  the 
brown,  peaked  face  flashing  out  in  sudden  fierceness. 

"It  was  a  bad  thing,  no  doubt  of  that,"  working  at 
the  sord  with  his  clumsy  fingers,  which  seemed  to  bungle 
strangely  this  morning.  "  But  you  take  it  to  heart, 
Berry,  as  though  young  Whitmarsh  was  a  friend  of 
yours." 

"  I  can't  help  it  when  I  think  how  good  and  generous 
he  was.  Nobody  else  in  the  world  would  have  done  so 
much,  and  then  how  he  spoke  and  smiled  ;  and  to  think 


52  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

it  all  happened  in  that  very  place,  too,  and  of  his  lying 
there  in  the  dark  all  bruised  "and  bleeding!"  She 
broke  right  down  into  sobbing  at  that  picture.  Poor 
little  Berry  Shumway  !  It  was  a  soft  heart  under  the 
peaked  face. 

Her  brother  had  turned  around  sharply  now,  and 
pushed  back  his  cap  like  a  man  who  felt  a  sudden  need 
of  air.  His  lips  were  half  apart,  and  his  breath  seemed 
to  come  out  of  them  hot  and  dry.  He  moistened  them 
once  or  twice  before  he  spoke  :  — 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Berry?  what  do  you  mean?  " 

It  flashed  across  the  girl  then  that  she  had  never  told 
her  brother  what  had  transpired  to  her  on  the  road  home 
that  afternoon  that  he  was  turned  out  of  the  Tuxbury 
Mills. 

She  had  meant  to,  a  dozen  times  perhaps,  but  Hardy 
had  been  in  such  hard,  sullen  moods  during  the  last 
miserable  weeks  that  she  had  been  a  little  afraid  how  he 
would  take  the  story,  and  put  off  the  relation  to  a  happier 
time. 

But  Berry  was  too  much  excited  now  for  any  fear  ; 
moreover,  she  wanted  to  awaken  in  her  brother  some 
keener  sympathy  for  young  Whitmarsh.  His  stolidity 
over  the  whole  atrocity  grated  on  her  feelings. 

So  in  a  few  sentences  the  whole  thing  came  out,  — 
the  sentences  broken,  ungrammatical,  slipping  off  into 
incoherency  sometimes,  but  the  whole  strong  and  pictu- 
resque, for  all  that. 

One  could  see  the  lonely  road-side  and  the  little  girl 
sitting  down  there  under  the  shadow  of  the  rock  counting 


THE  MILLS    OF  TDXBURT.  53 

her  money,  and  the  horse  standing  in  the  road,  and  the 
handsome  gentleman  leaning  softly  over  with  the  twinkle 
in  his  eyes,  placing  the  bank-note  atop  the  small  heap. 

Berry's  memory,  too,  had  garnered  up  every  word 
that  was  spoken  at  that  time.  She  went  over  it  now 
rapidly,  pausing  a  moment  sometimes  to  swallow  down 
the  tears  as  the  whole  scene  rose  vividly  before  her. 

Hardy  Shumway  had  taken  in  every  word,  the  heavy 
face  still  as  marble,  and  growing  stark  and  rigid  while 
his  sister  talked. 

He  strode  toward  her  now  and  caught  hold  of  her 
shoulder:  tl  Why  didn"  t  you  tell  me  this  before, —  why 
didn't  you  tell  me?  "  he  fairly  shouted. 

His  grip  hurt  the  girl  cruelly  ;  his  look  terrified  her. 
"I  was  afraid  of  you,"  trying  to  wrench  her  shoulder 
away.  "  0  Hardy,  don't,  — don't !  "  so  frightened  she 
did  not  know  what  she  said. 

But  the  pallor  of  his  face  hardly  seemed  like  rage, 
after  all,  for  the  next  moment  the  man's  heavy  frame 
dropped  limp  as  an  infant's  in  the  chair.  He  stared  at 
Berry  with  some  shocked,  hunted  look  in  his  eyes  ;  and 
at  last  he  said,  speaking  huskily,  with  no  anger,  but  a 
kind  of  slow  despair  in  his  voice,  ' '  If  you  had  only  told 
me  before,  Berry, —  if  you  only  had  !  " 

"I  would,  Hardy,  if  I  had  thought  you  would  care 
so  much.  I  thought  you  were  angry  with  me,  you  had 
such  an  awful  look,"  her  face  trembling  all  over.  "I 
was  so  frightened,  Hardy,  when  you  took  hold  of  me, 
and  you  are  so  white  now." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  child.     Never  mind  how 


54  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

I  look ;  I  felt  sick  of  a  sudden,  but  it's  gone  now.     If 
you  will  bring  me  a  drink  of  water  ?  " 

Berry  had  it  there  in  a  moment,  and  she  noticed  how 
her  brother's  hand  shook  as  he  took  the  tumbler  and 
drained  it  at  a  gulp,  like  a  man  parched  in  sandy 
deserts. 

"  You  aint  angry  with  me  one  bit,  Hardy?  "  hanging 
around  him  doubtfully. 

"  No,  child;  you  haven't  done  anything  wrong,  only 
if  you'd  told  me  all  about  that  before  —  but  you  didn't 
know—  "  He  stopped  there. 

"What  difference  does  it  make,  Hardy?  We 
couldn't  have  prevented  anything  that  happened  to  him, 
you  know?  " 

After  a  moment's  silence,  Hardy  Shumway  said,  "  I 
thought  your  wages  had  held  out  wonderful  of  late.  I 
s'pose  that  five  dollars  of  his'n  have  helped  carry  us 
along." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  her  very  own  smile  coming  out  on  the 
red,  unsteady  lips.  "  It's  got  you  a  good  many  papers 
of  tobacco,  and  the  side-joints  we've  had  lately,  and  the 
chicken  for  Christmas-dinner.  He  said  he  was  a  vener- 
able Santa  Glaus,  you  remember.  I've  often  thought 
we  never  should  have  got  on  without  that  money.  Five 
dollars  goes  a  great  ways  sometimes." 

Hardy  put  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  rested  his. chin 
on  his  palm ;  a  little  low,  choked  groan  came  out  of  his 
mouth. 

Berry  did  not  understand  it,  but,  with  her  native 
instinct  for  the  bright  side  of  things,  she  broke  out  in  a 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY.  55 

moment:  "But,  0  Hardy,  it  is  so  much  better  than 
if  he  had  died  there  !  To  think  that  young  lady  saved 
his  life !  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  glad  of  that  —  I  tell  you  I  am  !  "  with  a 
blaze  of  fierce  joy  in  his  light  eyes.  "  I  could  do  what 
you  said.  Berry,  —  go  down  on  my  knees  to  that  woman 
and  thank  her  for  savin'  his  life ;  even  I  could  do  that." 
He  stopped  there  and  broke  out  into  a  loud,  hard  laugh 
that  somehow  clashed  in  Berry's'  ear  like  a  shriek  of 
agony. 

"Why,  Hardy,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  with 
a  sudden  doubt  lest  the  long  trouble  of  these  days  had' 
driven  her  brother  mad. 

"Nothing,  child;  don't  mind  me.  I  haven't  been 
quite  myself  since  I  overheard  what  you  said,  Berry." 

"  What  did  you  overhear,  Hardy?  " 

"  You  didn't  mean  I  should,  but  I  had  come  out  into 
the  back  joom  for  a  light,  though  you  didn't  know  it, 
and  as  you  went  upstairs  to  bed  I  heard  you  mutter  to 
yourself,  'I'm  so  hungry  I  can't  go  to  sleep.  If  there 
was  only  one  good  slice  of  bread  in  this  house  !  but  the 
last  mouthful  arid  the  last  cent's  gone ! ' ' 

"0  Hardy,  did  you  hear  that?"  her  face  coloring 
all  over. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  Berry,"  growing  strangely  excited  for 
one  of  his  slow,  heavy  temperament.  "  It  seemed  as 
though  it  would  drive  me  mad.  To  think  of  my  little 
sister's  goin'  to  bed  and  lyin'  awake  hungry,  and  I,  a 
great,  strong,  lusty  fellow,  without  so  much  as  a  crust 
or  a  bone  to  give  her.  I  see  then  how  you'd  been  off 


5G  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXSURT. 

many  a  mornin'  to  work,  after  stintin'  your  breakfast,  so 
I  wouldn't  go  without,  while  I'd  got  nothing  to  do  but 
laze  at  home  all  day.  I  couldn't  stand  that,  Berry.  It 
seemed  to  turn  me  into  a  savage.  I  never  had  a  wink's 
sleep  with  those  words  o'  yours  ringin'  through  my 
brain,  and  they  made  me  feel  as  though  I  was  ripe  for 
anything.  What  right  had  men  and  women  to  nice 
homes,  and  food  to  waste,  and  fire  to  warm  'em,  while 
you  was  a-lying'  upstairs,  after  working  all  day,  with- 
out so  much  as  a  crust  to  stop  your  hunger?  "  The 
big.  dull  face  fired  up  now,  his  eyes  blazing  fiercely. 

"  0  Hardy.  I'm  so  sorry  you  heard  that.  I 
happened  to  be  talking  to  myself;  but  don't  you  know 
how  the  grocer  trusted  us  the  next  mornin',  so  we  had  a 
nice  breakfast?  " 

"Yes,  but  who  has  got  to  pay  for  it  in  the  end? 
You  don't  know,  Berry,  how  it  takes  the  heart  out  of  a 
strong  fellow,  and  turns  him  into  a  brute  or  a  savage, 
when  he  stays  at  home  livin'  on  the  wages  of  such  a 
little,  slender  mite  as  you  are.  I  never  thought  it 
would  come  to  this  !  "  his  fierceness  going  down  in  a 
kind  of  dull  apathy  of  despair. 

"But  it  won't  last  much  longer;  I'm  sure  it  won't. 
You  will  get  some  work  pretty  soon,  Hardy." 

The  man  shook  his  head:  "You've  said  that  so 
many  weeks,  Berry." 

"  But  I  don't  give  it  up  yet.  I  know  it's  real  hard 
to  believe  there's  a  God  anywhere  who  cares  anything 
for  us  when  one  is  hungry  and  hasn't  a  thing  to  eat," 
the  tears  going  thick  over  her  face;  "and  sometimes, 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  57 

when  it's  been  dreadful  dark,  I've  a'most  given  him 
up.  But  it  hasn't  been  for  long,  and  I  do  believe  he 
knows,  and  that  he  will  find  a  way  out  of  this  for  us. 
Yes,  Hardy,  I  do." 

He  looked  at  the  wet,  flushed  face.  These  last  weeks 
had  pinched  and  sharpened  it,  —  the  only  face  in  the 
wide  world  that  the  young  English  workman  loved. 
There  was  something  pathetic  in  that  look,  that  might 
have  touched  a  very  callous  heart. 

"  Well.  Berry,  don't  talk  about  God,"  he  said.  "  If 
there's  any  good  in  trusting  him,  you  may.w 

It  was  no  time  for  preaching  sermons  now.  Berry 
saw  that  as  clearly  as  far  wiser  souls.  Hardy  Shum- 
way's  soul  had  been  turning  a  long  way  from  God  in 
these  days. 

The  darkest  time  of  their  lives  had  gone  over  him  and 
Berry  during  this  winter.  Far  and  near  the  man  had 
sought  for.  work,  but,  outside  of  the  factories,  business 
was  dull,  and  there  was  a  plethora  of  hands  everywhere. 
He  might  have  gone  off  to  some  distant  city,  seeking  for 
employment,  but  he  had  neither  money  nor  friends,  and 
then  there  was  Berry  to  leave  behind  ! 

The  girl  had  kept  up  a  stout  heart,  a  brave  face, 
though  she  could  not  help  its  growing  a  meagre  one, 
through  it  all.  Her  wages  had  been  strained  to  their 
utmost  capacity,  and  they  had  kept  scanty  fire  on  the 
hearth  and  food  on  the  board  through  all  this  winter. 
But  here  and  there  little  debts  accumulated,  and  it  was 
hard  for  a  man  without  work  to  get  trusted  for  coals  or 
bread. 


58  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBUET. 

hoilj'jS     -tv'I 

So/Sardj  Shumway  had  sulked  with  his  pipe  by  the 
fire,  or  tramped  the  country  over  in  a  vain  search  for 
employment.  It  was  just  that  time  of  the  year  when 
nobody  wanted  hands,  and  every  day  the  young  man's 
•words  grew  fewer  and  his  face  harder,  and  at  the  door 
the  gaunt  face  of  the  watching  wolf  grew  leaner  and 
fiercer  —  leaner  and  fiercer  ! 

"0  Hardy,  what  have  you  got  here?"  exclaimed 
Berry,  her  eyes  fairly  glittering  as  she  caught  sight  of 
the  pile  of  fresh,  tempting  buns  which  had  half  fallen 
out  of  the  paper  her  brother  had  laid  on  the  table,  when 
he  first  came  in. 

"I  brought  them  for  you.     Help  yourself,  Berry." 

She  caught  the  cakes  greedily  in  her  hands.  Noth- 
ing so  fresh  and  dainty  had  passed  her  lips  for  weeks. 

"How  nice  they  do  taste!  But  where  did  you  get 
the  money,  Hardy?  " 

"Don't  ask  me.  You'll  never  have  to  pay  it,"  in 
that  tone  of  his  which  always  effectually  shut  off  any 
farther  questioning  on  her  side. 

She  concluded,  however,  that  Hardy  had  borrowed 
the  money  somewhere,  and  the  cakes  tasted  so  good  she 
could  not  be  sorry. 

So  she  went  on  eating  and  praising  the  buns,  while 
her  brother  watched  her.  Suddenly  she  stopped  eat- 
ing. 

"  Why,  Hardy,  aint  you  goin'  to  eat  some?  " 

"  No,"  with  a  quick  wave  of  his  hand ;  "I  don't  feel 
hungry,  and  if  I  did.  I  shouldn't  want  such  sweet 
stuff.  I  got  'em  for  you,  Berry." 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXDUKT.  59 

"  What  a  good  fellow  you  are,  Hardy  !  " 

"Good!  good!"  he  repeated  to  himself,  a  dark 
smile  coming  out  on  his  lips.  But  Berry  did  not  see 
it. 

In  a  few  moments  she  went  to  talking  of  the  '•  mur- 
der" again. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  they'll  find  those  wretches,  don't 
you,  Hardy?" 

Hardy  Shumway  coughed  a  little,  rose  up  and  went 
out  into  the  next  room  without  speaking  one  word. 

Berry  noticed  that  he  did  not  answer,  and  supposed 
that  he  had  not  heard  her. 


60  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 


CHAPTER  V. 

NINE  days  had  passed  since  the  night  of  the  tragedy 
near  the  Mills  of  Tuxbury,  and  the  matter  still  remained 
the  talk,  the  wonder,  and  the  unsolved  mystery  of  the 
country  for  miles  around. 

During  this  time  no  stone  had  been  left  unturned 
which  it  was  thought  might  afford  a  clue  to  the  discov- 
ery of  the  perpetrators  of  the  crime ;  but  this,  thus  far, 
had  baffled  the  skill  of  the  keenest  detectives,  both  of 
New  York  and  Boston. 

There  was  not  a  single  physiognomy  among  the  Gae- 
lic, Celtic,  and  Saxon  varieties,  which  make  up  the 
sum  total  of  the  operatives  in  mills  and  factories,  that 
had  not  undergone  a  keen  but  covert  scrutiny  from  the 
eyes  of  veterans  skilled  in  the  art  of  reading  human 
faces  and  human  characters  down  to  a  certain  level. 

Careless  expressions  had  been  treasured  up  and 
turned  over,  much  as  an  old  miner  turns  over  specimens 
of  new  soils  to  see  if  there  be  a  hint  of  gold-dust  among 
his  handfuls  of  river-bed  and  hill-side  dirt,  and  tosses 
them  away  at  last  with  a  growl  of  contempt  over  the 
worthless  mud  or  sand. 

But  the  detectives  never  growled  over  their  failures. 
They  were  too  thoroughly  seasoned  for  any  indulgence 
of  that  sort  of  human  weakness.  They  still,  however, 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY.  61 

like  well-trained  hounds,  kept  quietly  and  briskly  on  the 
scent. 

Meanwhile,  heavy  rewards  were  offered  far  and  near 
to  stimulate  the  cupidity  of  certain  classes  of  men,  or  the 
treachery  of  accomplices ;  but.  despite  all  these  efforts, 
the  deed  which  had  proved  so  nearly  the  midnight  assas- 
sination of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  remained  still  shrouded 
in  the  impenetrable  mystery  of  the  beginning. 

Meanwhile  the  victim  was  slowly  rallying  from  the 
Death  into  which  he  had  been  well-nigh  swept  down. 
Vital  forces  less  powerful  could  never  have  renewed 
themselves  after  the  dreadful  exhaustion  they  had  under- 
gone ;  but  there  was  a  robust  tenacity  in  the  constitution 
of  young  Whitmarsh  which  just  carried  him  through  the 
deadly  strain. 

The  man  was  fortunate,  too,  in  having  just  the  sort  of 
physician  that  he  did  in  Dr.  Avery.  For  several  days 
the  life  of  young  Whitmarsh  hung  upon  a  thread,  and 
the  least  mistake  might  have  been  fatal.  When  friends 
at  a  distance  learned  his  danger,  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  talk  about  having  a  consultation  of  the  best  medical 
advisers  from  the  city,  and  the  elder  brother  at  once 
took  Dr.  Avery  aside  and  conferred  with  him  on  the 
subject. 

The  old  man  was  quite  ready  to  resign  his  patient 
into  other  hands ;  but  he  had  his  own  theories,  and  he 
would  not  have  others  intermeddle  with  them. 

"  I  cannot  promise  to  pull  your  brother  through,"  he 
said  to  the  elder  Whitmarsh,  in  his  prompt,  blunf  fash- 
ion; "and  these  other  men,  with  their  wider  reputation 


62  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXfiURY. 

and  knowledge,  may  do  for  him  what  I  cannot.  I  cheer- 
fully resign  the  charge ;  but  this  is  one  of  those  critical 
cases  of  life  or  death  in  which  I  must  have  my  own  way, 
absolutely.  Working  with  others,  deferring  to  their 
opinions,  I  would  not  take  the  responsibility  on  my 
hands.  Left  to  myself,  I  will  do  the  best  I  can,  and 
there  is  a  chance  for  him  ;  but  I  may  fail." 

John  Whitmarsh  had  a  profound  respect  for  the  old 
doctor's  sagacity,  and  this  speech  did  not  weaken  his 
faith.  He  simply  grasped  the  man's  hand  and  said, 
"  Dr.  A  very.  I  leave  the  boy  in  your  hands,  and  no 
human  being  shall  intermeddle  with  you."  And  both 
were  men  of  their  word. 

So  slowly,  that  the  improvement,  to  those  who 
watched  him  by  day  and  .by  night,  was  hardly  percepti- 
ble, the  young  man's  life  rallied  again.  The  lapses  into 
unconsciousness,  which  startled  his  friends  with  a  terrible 
fear  that  Death  was  swooping  back  again  after  his  half- 
relinquished  prey,  grew  less  frequent.  Benjamin  Whit- 
marsh  began  to  converse  with  those  about  him  in  snatches, 
—  to  have  over  his  jokes  with  a  certain  quaint  flavor  of 
wit  and  humor  in  them,  which  was  native  to  him  as  the 
air  he  breathed;  and  when  they  brought  his  little 
nephew  to  him,  and  the  boy  crowed  at  sight  of  tire  famil- 
iar face,  the  man  actually  forgot  all  about  his  wound, 
and  would  have  caught  the  baby  in  his  arms  if  they  had 
not  checked  him. 

For,  the  first  week  young  Whitmarsh  had  manifested 
little  curiosity  concerning  his  situation.  One  day.  how- 
ever, waking  out  of  something  that  was  half  a  swoon 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRT.  63 

and  half  a  slumber,  he  did  ask  suddenly  of  his  brother, 
who  was  bending  over  him,  "  John,  what  under  heavens 
brought  me  down  here  ?  " 

The  man  was  taken  wholly  unprepared  by  this  ques- 
tion, but  he  managed  to  say,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course. 
"  You  had  a  terrible  fall  coming  over  from  town  the 
other  night." 

The  young  man's  eyes  clouded  with  perplexity : 
"  That  was  not  all,  John.  You  are  holding  part  of  the 
truth  back.  Let  me  have  the  whole,"  in  the  old,  impa- 
tient, dominant  tone,  which  rang  down  into  his  brother's 
heart  like  the  sweet  clamor  of  bells  borne  on  a  wind 
that  came  far  across  the  seas  from  the  coasts  of  their 
boyhood. 

"What  do  you  remember,  Ben?  If  you  can  go 
over  the  story  without  harming  yourself,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  hear  it,  only  you  must  not  forget  that  you  have  been 
a  desperately  sick  man." 

"  Desperately  sick  !  "  going  over  with  the  words 
thoughtfully,  —  "  that  means  sick  almost  unto  death,  I 
suppose?" 

'•'•  It  means  just  that,  old  fellow ;  but  the  worst  is 
over  ;  .we  intend  to  pull  you  through  this  squall  and  set 
you  on  dry  land  again." 

He  was  silent  after  that  for  a  while,  and  John  saw 
that  thought,  feeling,  memory,  were  all  busily  at  work 
with  his  brother.  He  did  not  venture  to  interrupt 
them.  He  sat  still,  wishing  that  Dr.  Avery  would 
come  in  at  that  crisis.  It  was  the  first  time  •  the  physi- 


6-i  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY. 

cian  had  left  his  patient  for  three  hours  since  that  dread- 
ful night. 

At  last,  Ben  Whitmarsh  looked  up ;  the  cloud  cleared 
from  his  eyes,  and  the  old,  clear  intelligence  shone  out 
of  them. 

"I  remember  it  all,  John.  It  was  done  in  a  few 
moments.  The  villains  came  very  near  finishing  me  up. 
They  took  me  by  surprise,  you  see." 

Whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  it  would  have  to  come 
out  now.  John  Whitmarsh  saw  that;  moreover,  he  was 
eager  himself  to  learn  whether  he  could  glean  any  new 
facts  from  Ben's  coherent  relation  of  the  affair.  During 
his  illness  the  latter  had  gone  over  the  whole  encounter 
many  times .;  but  it  was  always  in  a  half-conscious  state, 
and  ended  in  child's  babble  about  some  event  of  his  boy- 
hood, bringing  up  with  such  freshness  and  quaintness 
some  old,  homely,  long- forgotten  scene,  that  it  more 
than  once  drove  his  elder  brother  from  the  room. 

All  that  Ben  Whitmarsh  would  ever  have  to  tell 
of  the  midnight  onslaught,  which  had  so  nearly  cost  him 
his  life,  he  told  at  this  time.  There  were  no  new  facts 
elicited.  It  was  substantially  the  same  story  which  the 
young  man  had  so  often  gone  over  in  his  semi-lucid  in- 
tervals, —  the  same  story  which  had  been  repeated  by 
groups  in  the  stores  and  on  the  highways,  and  by  thou- 
sands of  firesides  among  the  hills  for  miles  around, 
during  the  last  week,  —  the  same  story  which,  away  off 
in  the  factory  settlement,  Berry  Shumway  had  told  one 
morning  to  her  brother. 

It  brought  the  heat  into  the  young  man's  cheeks  and 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBUHY.  65 

a  blaze  into  his  eyes,  weak  as  he  was,  living  over  the 
brutal  attack  once  more ;  and  several  times  he  had  to 
pause  from  sheer  exhaustion,  and  his  brother,  alarmed  at 
the  other's  agitation,  would  interpose  with,  "  There, 
Ben,  old  fellow,  that's  enough  for  this  time.  Let  the 
rest  wait.  You'll  harm  yourself  if  you  keep  on." 

But  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  been  accustomed  to 
having  his  own  way,  and  illness  does  not  always  pro- 
mote obedience.  The  story,  with  all  its  strong,  fierce, 
brutal  life,  its  deadly  peril,  was  fortunately  not  a  long 
one. 

Its  effect  on  John  Whitmarsh  was  very  much  what 
might  have  been  expected,  coming  from  those  white  lips, 
with  the  shadow  of  death  hardly  yet  fallen  from  the  sick 
face  beneath  him. 

The  brothers  had  grasped  each  other's  hands  all  the 
time  they  talked.  There  was  a  singularly  strong,  yet 
not  demonstrative,  affection  between  the  two  men. 

"  If  I  could  get  my  hands  on  the  villains !  If  I 
could  only  get  hold  of  them!  "  the  man  broke  out,  losing 
all  thought  for  the  moment  of  the  danger  of  agitating 
his  brother,  "they  should  swing  for  it." 

"  Have  you  any  clue  to  them  yet  ?  "  asked  Benjamin, 
faintly. 

"  No,  dear  fellow.  What  a  brute  I  am  to  excite  you 
so !  Not  another  word  before  Dr.  Avery  comes.  Ah, 
Ben,  we;ll  bring  you  sound  and  strong,  with  colors  all 
flying,  into  port  yet." 

A  faint  smile  touched  the  sick  man's  lips ;  but  utter 
exhaustion  compelled  obedience  this  time,  and  before 


66  THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY. 

Eleanor  caine  in  to  take  her  husband's  place  at  the  bed- 
side, —  he  being  suddenly  summoned  away,  —  the  invalid 
had  sunk  into  a  heavy  slumber. 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  the  man  woke  up  greatly 
refreshed,  and  found  the  blooming,  smiling  face  of  his 
pretty  sister-in  law  before  him. 

There  was  the  old  sparkle  in  his  smile  this  time  : 
"Ah,  Nellie,  what  heaps  of  trouble  I'm  making  you  !  " 

"Not  a  bit,  you  darling  old  fellow!  "  choking  over 
the  words,  her  face  quivering  into  smiles  and  tears. 
"  0  Ben,  to  think  we're  going  to  have  you  well,  after 
all!" 

"  It  was  a  fine  chance  to  let  me  slide  off  for  a  nui- 
sance, and  be  rid  of  me  forever.  You  must  have  cared 
something  for  me  to  take  all  this  pains  to  pull  me  back 
on  my  feet  again." 

This  talk  was  hardly  like  Benjamin  Whitmarsh ;  but 
when  a  man  is  struck  down  in  the  pride  of  his  youth 
and  strength,  and  comes  up  again  out  of  the  very 
shadow  of  the  grave,  he  feels  what  human  love  is  worth. 

"  Stop  talking  in  that  way,  Ben,"  with  a  gush  of 
tears  over  all  the  warm  brightness  of  her  face.  "  It 
hurts  me.  As  though  we  shouldn't  all  have  died  if  you 
hadn't  got  well.  0  Ben,  you  don't  know !  "  stopping 
right  there  with  a  desperate  effort. 

"  Forgive  me,  Eleanor  ;  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the 
world.  You  are  the  dearest  little  sister  a  man  ever  had, 
and  you  know  we  are  not  like  you  women ;  but  it's 
pleasant  for  a  fellow  to  feel,  when  he  comes  up  from 
where  I  have;  that  somebody's  glad  to  welcome  him 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  67 

back."  More  than  once  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  saw  his  lips 
quiver  across  the  words. 

' ;  If  you  could  only  have  seen  us  that  night  you 
would  have  found  out  — "  and  here  again  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh  suddenly  checked  herself,  wondering  at  her  own 
imprudence ;  but  the  truth  was.  the  lady's  nerves  had 
been  so  shaken  during  these  days  that  she  was  not  just 
herself. 

Her  brother-in-law  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  the  lady 
resumed  her  seat ;  and  he  held  her  hand  and  smiled  in 
her  face  once  in  a  while,  and  she  smoothed  his  hair  and 
his  pillow,  trying  to  keep  very  quiet  and  ease  her  over- 
charged heart  by  little  offices  of  that  sort. 

At  last  he  spoke  suddenly:  "Tell  me,  Eleanor,  all 
about  that  night." 

"  Oh,  no,"  with  a  little  pantomime  of  dismay ;  "you 
are  not  strong  enough  to  hear  it  yet.  The  doctor  and 
John  would  never  forgive  me." 

"  Never  mind  the  doctor  and  John,"  with  a  little 
gesture  of  his  old  imperativeness  ;  for,  in  the  first  place 
he  had  been  the  spoiled,  youngest  darling  of  the 
household ;  and  though  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  an 
original  stock  of  indolent  good-nature,  he  was  ac- 
customed to  having  people  do  what  pleased  him.  "  You 
won't  treat  me  now  as  though  I  were  a  baby,  Eleanor. 
It  will  do  me  no  harm  to  hear  some  of  the  facts.  Tell 
me  at  least  how  long  I  had  lain  there." 

"  At  least  two  hours,  they  thought." 

"  And  some  of  the  workmen  stumbled  over  me  in  the 
road,  I  think  John  said?" 


68  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY. 

There  could  be  no  harm  of  course  in  telling  the  sick 
man  what  he  knew  already,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  reasoned, 
and  so  by  degrees  he  drew  one  fact  and  another  from 
her,  the  lady  really  fancying  she  was  communicating 
very  little  that  was  new  to  her  brother-in-law. 

"  It  was  Miss  Marjorie,  then,  you  say,  who  first 
caught  sight  of  me  as  the  men  brought  me  up  the  road  ? 
I  can  conceive  it  must  have  been  an  awful  shock  to 
her." 

"  Oh,  dreadful,  Ben!" 

"  Miss  Carruthers'  nerves  could  stand  nothing  of  that 
sort.  Poor  girl  !  She  dropped  in  a  dead  faint,  I 
suppose." 

"  No,  indeed,  she  did  nothing  of  that  sort,"  broke  out 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  most  energetically.  "  0  Ben,  if  you 
could  only  have  seen  her  that  night  —  if  you  knew  what 
you  owed  to  her!  " 

This  was  treading  on  dangerous  ground  in  the  invalid's 
present  weak  state.  The  lady  recollected  herself  again. 

"Now,  Ben.  don't  ask  me  another  word,  for  really  I 
must  not  tell  you ;  and  oh,  here  comes  Dr.  Avery,  and 
what  will  he  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  what  you  have  been  saying  to 
our  patient,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,"  answered  the  doctor's 
voice,  with  a  certain  juicy  mellowness  of  years  and  of  a 
warm  heart  flavoring  all  the  words. 

At  the  first  glance  the  favorable  change  in  the  sick 
man  was  apparent  to  his  physician. 

Thsre  was  no  sight  on  the  earth  that  thrilled  the  old 
man's  soul  with  so  keen  and  reverent  a  joy  as  the  sight 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  69 

of  a  face  which  he  had  long  watched  with  tender,  doubt- 
ful anxiety,  rousing  itself  once  more  from  out  that  ashen 
pallor  and  stillness  which  is  so  close  to  the  shadow  of 
death,  and  now  the  man's  innate  joy  and  gratitude  broke 
out :  "  The  Lord  be  praised,  my  son  !  We'll  have  you 
sound  and  stalwart  on  your  feet  again !  " 

"And  you  have  saved  his  life,  doctor, — you  and 
Marjorie  !  "  broke  out  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  afresh,  in  the 
midst  of  her  gladness. 

A  little,  warning  glance  from  the  physician  came  too 
late,  and  a  touch  of  the  pulse  told  its  own  story. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  You've  been  having  some  ex- 
citing talk  here,"  he  said. 

1 '  It  was  all  my  fault ;  I  dragged  it  out  of  her  against 
her  will,  doctor,"  answered  the  sick  man  ;  "  and  what's 
more,  I  must  have  the  rest." 

"  What  have  you  been  telling  him,  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh?" 

"  Nothing,  only  what  he  knew  before.  At  least, 
that  was  all  I  intended." 

' '  It  was  about  what  happened  to  me  that  night, 
doctor.  Give  her  your  permission  to  tell  me  the  whole 
story.  I  want  to  know  what  you  all  did  with  my  old 
hulk  when  you  got  it  into  port  once  more." 

Dr.  Avery  saw  that  his  patient  was  excited,  and  he 
knew  the  monomanias  of  the  first  stages  of  convalescence. 
It  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  betrayed 
enough  of  the  events  of  that  terrible  night  to  awaken  a 
hankering  curiosity  in  her  brother-in-law,  and  though 
she  had  her  full  share  of  feminine  tact,  this  was  a 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 


matter  in  which  the  lady's  feelings  -were  too  profoundly 
enlisted  to  hope  now  for  any  successful  dissimulation. 
She  would  intend  to  obey  the  physician's  orders  re- 
ligiously, but  Ben  Whitmarsh  would  drag  the  main  facts 
out  of  her  at  an  expense  of  nervous  vitality  which  he 
could  ill  afford. 

If  the  truth  must  come  out,  it  had  better  be  told 
squarely,  leaving  nothing  for  the  patient's  curiosity  to 
tease  and  hanker  after  for  days.  It  was  best,  too,  that 
the  story  should  be  told  in  his  presence.  Dr.  Avery 
made  a  virtue  of  necessity.  •  • 

"  I  always  employ  the  same  rule  with  sick  men  and 
babies."  said  the  cheery  voice.  "Both  have  their 
crotchets,  —  one  for  playthings,  the  other  for  tragedies. 
Let  our  friend  have  his,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh." 

This  playful  preface  was  not  without  a  purpose.  The 
doctor  knew  the  hold  which  the  thing  the  invalid  was 
to  hear  could  not  fail  to  have  even  on  a  well  man's 
heart  and  imagination. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  lived  over  the  dreadful  life  of 
that  time  too  vitally  not  to  tell  her  story  well. 

She  went  over  it  now  from  the  beginning.  Nobody 
interrupted  her  from  commencement  to  conclusion. 

The  sick  man,  with  his  lips  slightly  apart  and  his 
hand  shading  his  eyes,  drank  in  every  word. 

They  could  see  the  muscles  about  his  mouth  quiver 
sometimes  as  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  kept  on,  carried  quite  out 
of  herself  by  the  memory  of  that  awful  hour  when  the 
man  lay  as  one  dead  among  the  crowd  of  living  men 
around  him,  and  Marjorie  Carruthers  stood  there  with 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  71 

her  white,  stark  face  and  her  burning  eyes,  waving  back 
Death  from  his  victim. 

All  the  heroism  of  that  night's  work  was  set  before 
the  eyes  of  the  sick  man  as  no  other  voice  in  the  world 
could  have  done  it ;  for  though  Marjorie  Carruthers  had 
many  admirers,  there  was  nobody  who  loved  her  with 
just  the  fondness  of  her  cousin,  Eleanor  Whitmarsh. 

The  poor  thing  had  broken  down  into  sobs  a  good 
many  times  while  she  was  relating  her  story,  but  she 
got  through  with  it  at  last. 

Then  her  brother-in-law  drew  his  hand  from  his  face. 
It  was  trembling  all  over,  and  out  of  it  shone  all  the 
hoarded  power  of  his  eyes.  "  Doctor,"  in  a  hoarse, 
broken  whisper,  "was  it  she  —  Miss  Carruthers  —  who 
saved  my  life?  " 

"  It  was  she,  my  friend.  That  half  hour  would  have 
finished  you  up  for  this  world,  if  her  heart  or  brain  had 
failed  her.  We  don't  know  what  heroic  stuff  is  in  these 
women  until  we  come  to  test  them.  Miss  Carruthers 
ought  to  have  been  on  the  staff  of  Florence  Nightingale." 

The  invalid  made  no  reply.  He  covered  his  bands 
again  with  his  eyes,  and  they  saw  the  tears  gush  through 
his  fingers.  Dr.  Avery  signed  for  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  to 
leave  the  room. 


72  THE  MILLS  OF  TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MARJORIE  CARRUTHERS  came  downstairs  the  follow- 
ing day,  for  the  first  time.  She  had  been  confined  to 
her  room  with  a  sort  of  slow  fever ;  nothing  dangerous 
certainly,  but  a  most  natural  reaction  from  the  strain 
she  had  undergone. 

Dr.  Avery  had  largely  allowed  Nature  to  recuperate 
herself  in  the  girl's  case,  and  one  day  he  quite  appalled 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  who  had  hung  all  this  time  with  a 
kind  of  tearful  fondness  and  anxiety  about  her  cousin, 
by  insisting  that  Miss  Carruthers  should  accompany  him 
on  a  five-mile  drive  to  one  of  his  patients. 

For  once  the  lady  demurred  at  the  doctor's  orders : 
"  She  is  so  sensitive  and  nervous.  She  has  never  been 
herself  since  that  terrible  time.  Poor  Marjorie  never 
can  bear  that  drive,  doctor." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  snapping  his  fingers.  "  I'll  answer 
for  '  Poor  Marjorie's  nerves.'  She  needs  something  to 
wake  her  out  of  herself,  and  your  perpetual  coddling 
and  cosseting  will  never  do  that.  I  shall  be  back 
here  in  half  an  hour,  my  dear  madam.  See  to  it  by 
that  time  that  Miss  Carruthers,  thoroughly  bundled  up 
in  furs  and  shawls,  stands  by  my  gig.  I'll  hold  myself 
responsible  for  the  rest." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  obey,  and  Mrs.  Whit- 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY.  73 

marsh  went  upstairs  in  dismay  to  communicate  the 
doctor's  orders. 

To  her  surprise,  the  young  woman  received  them  with 
great  animation.  Marjorie  always  had  been  a  restless 
creature,  her  cousin  reflected,  putting  a  week's  work  or 
pleasure  in  a  single  day,  when  the  notion  seized  her,  and 
the  idea  of  a  ride  suited  her  mood.  She  protested  her- 
self ennuied  to  death  betwixt  her  books  and  Eleanor's 
fussing,  and  that  a  ride  in  the  crisp,  frosty  air  was  the 
one  thing  that  would  give  her  a  new  lease  of  life  at 
this  juncture ;  and  she  was  actually  at  the  window 
when  the  doctor  returned,  and  within  the  next  two 
minutes  he  had  the  young  lady  snugly  bestowed  in  the 
gig,  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  standing  on  the  veranda, 
watched  the  two  drive  off,  and  seeing  Marjorie' s  parting 
bow  and  smile,  so  much  like  her  old  self,  the  lady 
murmured  as  she  turned  to  go  in,  "  The  doctor  was 
right.  I  believe,  after  all." 

Nobody  could  doubt  that,  seeing  the  face  of  Miss 
Carruthers  after  the  first  half-hour  was  over.  Such  a 
fine  glow  and  animation  had  come  into  the  listless  pallor 
which  had  held  her  cheeks  for  the  last  ten  days.  She 
laughed  at  the  doctor's  speeches.  There  was  a  witty 
crispness  in  them  which  hinted  of  her  uncle's  talk ; 
and  though  the  latter  had  been  a  fine  scholar  and  a 
fastidious  critic,  which  latter  Dr.  Avery  could  never  be 
now,  still  the  old  man  had  a  faith  in  God  and  in  hu- 
manity which  gave  to  his  character  a  real  force,  and  to 
his  life  a  use  and  blessing  which  the  other  had  never 
possessed. 


74  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

Dr.  A. very,  with  his  shrewd  insight  of  character,  saw 
deeply  into  this  girl,  —  her  faults  and  weaknesses,  her 
rare  truth  and  nobleness. 

He  never  flattered  her,  not  even  for  that  deed  which 
had  made  her  the  heroine  of  the  country-side,  and  drew 
folks  to  stare  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  curious  wonder 
and  awe  as  they  drove  along. 

Once,  after  they  had  passed  a  little  group  of  factory- 
people  on  the  roadside,  who  had  stood  still  and  gaped  at 
her,  Marjorie  drew  her  veil,  with  a  little  gesture  of  im- 
patience, over  her  face.  ' '  I  wish  people  would  let  me 
alone,"  she  burst  out.  "  I  never  had  any  ambition  to 
be  stared  at  as  though  I  were  a  gorgon,  giraffe,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  strayed  out  of  a  menagerie." 

"  Softly,  child,  softly,"  went  the  doctor's  bright, 
steady  tones.  "It  is  not  at  all  worth  fretting  one's  soul 
over.'; 

"But  this  vulgar  notoriety  is  so  offensive  to  me.  I 
never  could  endure  to  be  gazed  at,  —  to  be  the  central 
attraction  of  a  gaping  crowd  of  coarse  people,  like  those 
we  have  just  passed.  If  good-breeding  were  only  a 
native  instinct  with  all  mankind,  and  womankind  also, 
how  much  annoyance  one  would  be  saved !  " 

Was  this  fretful,  impatient  creature  the  woman  who 
a  few  days  ago  had  risen  up  to  the  height  of  a  grand 
heroism,  fronting  death  with  her  calm,  resolute  face? 
What  a  compound  of  virtues  and  weakness,  of  taint  of 
blood  and  sickness  of  soul,  of  meanness  and  grandeur, 
this  human  nature  was !  Look  at  this  woman  now, 


THE   MILLS    OF   TDXBURY.  75 

sitting  by  his  side,  with  her  foolish  whims  and  freaks, 
and  think  of  what  she  had  done  once  ! 

So  the  doctor's  thoughts  went  to  himself  as  they 
dashed  along  over  the  thin  rind  of  snow,  through  the 
clear,  sharp,  up-hill,  wintry  air.  Then  he  spoke,  his 
words  seeking  after  the  nobler  key  that  was  in  the 
nature  of  this  proud,  strong,  weak  woman,  —  the  key 
that,  rightly  touched,  would  be  sure  to  yield  its  own  music. 

"  When  you  have  trebled  your  years,  Miss  Carruthers, 
as  I  have,  almost,  you  will  learn  that  one  must  take  all 
the  consequences  of  their  deeds,  and  that  these  are  not 
always  pleasant,  even  when  the  deed  is  a  good  one.  —  as 
good  as  yours  the  other  night." 

A  little,  swift  change  came  in  the  girl's  face.  She 
drew  nearer  to  her  companion's  side  and  dropped  the 
veil  from  her  face.  ' '  Was  it  really  a  good  deed,  do 
you  think,  doctor  ?  "  her  voice  now  like  a  child's  who 
asks  timidly  whether  it  has  done  right.  This  sudden 
surprise  of  mood,  this  swift,  childlike  side  of  her,  was  one 
of  the  subtle  charms  of  Marjorie  Carruthers. 

"  I  took  it  for  granted  you  must  know  I  thought 
that,"  answered  the  doctor. 

"  No,  I  did  not,  because  you  have  never  praised  me  as 
the  others  have  done.  I  hate  flattery,  but  it  is  pleasant 
to  hear  you  say  I  did  a  good  thing  that  night,  because  I 
know  that  you  mean  all  that  you  say." 

"  It  was  so  good  a  deed,  my  child,  that  I  praised  God 
for  putting  it  into  your  heart  to  do  it,  and  so  forgot  to 
praise  you." 

A  touched,    tender  smile  came   into  her  eyes  now: 


76  THE   MILLS    Of  TVXBURY. 

"You  think  it  really  was  good  then!  It  did  not  seem 
as  though  it  was  myself  at  all,  during  the  whole  time." 

"  But  I  do  think,  Miss  Carruthers,  you  would  do  it 
all  over  again  if  it  came  to  you,  though  you  were  cer- 
tain the  natural  consequences  would  follow," — an  arch 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  —  "the  staring  and  gaping  of  a 
curious,  vulgar  crowd." 

A  little,  conscious  smile  about  her  lips,  but  behind  it 
was  the  flash  of  the  old'  dauntless  look  with  which  she 
had  confronted  him  that  night;  yet  she  said,  very 
quietly,  ' '  I  believe  you  are  right,  doctor.  If  it  came  to 
me,  I  would  try  to  go  through  the  whole  thing  again." 

"I  think,  too."  he  continued,  "that  amongst  that 
coarse,  underbred  crowd,  there  are  a  good  many  warm, 
honest  hearts,  who  have  lately  been  praying  blessings  on 
your  head,  Miss  Carruthers." 

The  fine,  clear,  delicate  face  was  touched  with  a  great 
softness:  "  I  used  sometimes  to  wish,  when  I  read  of 
Joan  of  Arc  and  Florence  Nightingale  and  Grace  Dar- 
ling, that  I  might  do  at  least  one  brave,  generous  act 
before  I  died.  If  that  was  one,  however,  I  was  wholly 
unconscious  of  it  at  the  time.  I  saved  that  man's  life, 
as  you  say  I  did,  simply  because  I  could  not  help  it. 
I  never  thought  of  what  I  was  doing." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  dear  child.  Yet  that  does 
not  make  it  less  a  good  thing ;  a  great  one  as  the  world 
goes,  —  that  you  did." 

"  A  great  thing  to  save  a  human  life  !  I  suppose  it 
was,  and  perhaps  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that  I  lived, 
when  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  nothing  to  do  in  the 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY. 


world, — when  I  think  I  would  honestly  have  been 
thankful  to  anybody  who  would  have  taken  my  own  life 
swiftly  away  from  me." 

He  knew  that  she  was  speaking  of  the  time  when  her 
uncle  died.  Marjorie  was  usually  reticent  about  the 
storm  that  had  gone  down  among  the  very  roots  of  her 
youth  and  torn  them  up  and  hurled  all  their  wide  green- 
ness to  the  winds. 

"Was  it  so  bad  as  that,  my  poor  child?  "  asked  the 
doctor. 

"  Yes,  just  so  bad,"  the  brown  radiance  of  her  eyes 
glittering  through  their  tears. 

So  much  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  never  said  before, 
either  to  man  or  woman. 

At  this  moment  the  factory  road,  along  which  the 
two  had  come,  struck  off  suddenly  to  the  right,  winding 
between  the  pastures,  with  low,  brooding  hills  closing  in 
the  landscape  on  either  side,  —  a  landscape  out  of  which 
all  the  year's  life  and  grace  and  beauty  had  emptied 
itself.  Even  the  thin  snows  gave  a  general  look  of 
dreariness  to  everything,  and  the  winds  rasped  angrily 
through  the  air. 

Marjorie  shivered  a  little  under  her  furs  and  wrap- 
pings at  the  first  outlook  on  this  dreary  landscape. 

11  Nevermind,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If  the  air  is  bitter, 
it's  bracing,  like  a  good  many  other  things  in  life." 

Before  his  companion  could  reply,  she  caught  sight  of 
a  little,  quaint  figure  in  the  road,  in  a  gray  water-proof. 

A  thin,  brown,  startled  face  under  a  straw  hat  looked 
up  at  the  two  occupants  of  the  gig.  Everybody  within 


78  THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

miles  of  Tuxbury  knew  that  short,  stout  figure  and  the 
broad  shoulders  inside ;  but  as  the  girl  in  the  road 
caught  sight  of  the  fair,  dainty  face  of  the  doctor's  com- 
panion, a  change  came  into  her  eyes,  —  a  look  so  full 
of  eager  pleasure,  amazement,  awe,  that  one  could  not 
help  being  struck  by  it. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  had  carelessly  tossed  her  veil  on 
one  side  of  her  bonnet,  and  some  freak  of  wind  caught  it 
now,  and,  whirling  it  across  the  road,  struck  it  down  on 
a  heap  of  barberry-bushes  on  one  side. 

The  girl  in  the  road  sprang  forward  at  that  sight, 
caught  the  veil  where  the  wind  had  lodged  it,  while  the 
doctor  drew  up  his  horse,  preparing  to  alight. 

The  girl  came  forward  now,  her  eager,  awe-struck 
eyes  still  on  the  lady,  the  brown,  peaked  face  flushed 
with  some  feeling  that  brought  out  a  secret  of  force  and 
character  in  what  would  have  been  otherwise  only  a 
homely  little  factory  girl's  face. 

She  held  up  the  veil  in  her  brown,  bare  fingers. 
"  Here  is  your  veil,  ma'am,"  she  said. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  leaned  forward.  "Thank  you," 
she  answered.  "You  are  very  kind  to  save  me  any 
further  trouble  for  my  carelessness." 

Any  lady  would  have  said  as  much  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  there  was  a  graciousness  in  Marjorie  Carru- 
thers' smile  and  manner,  which  gave  to  her  words  a 
royal  bounty  and  sweetness  which  the  girl  had  never 
met  before. 

She  looked  up  in  the  high-bred,  delicate  face,  a 
sudden  longing  coming  into  her  eyes,  and,  underneath, 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  79 

the  red,  bright  mouth  trembling  with  shyness  and  with 
shy  words  that  would  never  unaided  find  courage  to 
steady  themselves  on  such  unsteady  lips. 

Marjorie  saw  it  all.  "  Is  there  anything  you  would 
like  to  say  to  me?  Do  not  be  afraid,"  she  continued, 
her  smile  at  times  cold  and  proud  as  the  glitter  of  ice, 
now  striking  along  every  word,  —  a  very  marvel  of 
sweetness. 

"  I !  "  stammered  the  girl,  the  blushes  working  up  into 
her  face  until  her  cheeks  fairly  rivalled  the  native  scarlet 
of  her  lips.  "0  ma'am,  I  said  I  would  go  a  great 
many  miles  to  thank  you  once  for  saving  that  young 
man's  life  the  other  night.  I  knew  as  soon  as  I  saw 
your  face  it  was  you  who  did  it ;  and  —  and  he  was  once 
very  kind  to  me,"  the  sobs  working  up  into  her  throat 
and  choking  her  eyes  with  tears.  "If  it  isn't  proper,  I 
hope  you'll  forgive  me,  and  just  let  me  say  this  once 
right  out  of  my  heart,  I  thank  you." 

Marjorie  Carruthers  leaned  forward.  This  child's 
native  burst  of  feeling  shook  the  girl  to  the  centre,  as 
all  the  wonder  and  praise  which  had  been  heaped  on  her 
for  the  last  week  had  failed  to  do. 

She  took  Berry's  red  fingers  in  her  soft,  ungloved 
palm  :  "  My  child,  there  is  nothing  to  forgive.  It  is  I 
who  ought  to  thank  you." 

Dr.  Avery  had  been  watching  all  this  intently.  He 
had  noticed  the  little  figure  in  its  gray  water-proof  going 
home  from  the  factory  more  than  once;  but  there  was 
nothing  striking  in  that  sight,  and  he  had  never  seen 
clearly  the  warm,  honest  little  face  that,  despite  its 


80  THE   if  ILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

peakedness  and  ridge  of  freckles,  had  a  character  and 
interest  of  its  own,  when  it  was  wide  awake,  as  it  was 
this  moment. 

There  was  no  time  for  talk  now,  but  the  man  put  out 
his  hand  and  grasped  the  little  brown  fingers. 

"  Shake  hands  with  me,  also,  my  little  friend,"  said 
the  voice,  through  whose  heartiness  rung  at  times  the 
eternal  youth  of  the  old  man's  soul.  "  Tell  me  what  I 
shall  call  you  when  we  meet  next  time." 

"Berry  Shumway  is  my  name,  Dr.  Avery." 

"  Ah,  I  see  you're  ahead  of  me,  and  so  I  shall  not 
have  the  honor  of  introducing  myself.  Well,  get  home 
out  of  this  cold  as  briskly  as  possible,  and  good-by," 
his  keen  physician's  eyes  taking  notice  of  the  thin  face 
and  small  figure.  "Low  blood,  general  want  of  tone 
and  good-keeping,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

Then  the  gig  rolled  on.  Neither  of  its  occupants 
spoke  for  a  while.  Away,  among  the  distant  gullies 
and  clefts  of  the  hills,  the  winds  struggled  and  moaned 
in  vague  complaint,  like  the  restlessness  of  human 
hearts,  and  cold,  gray  clouds  hurried  across  the  sky  as 
though  they  had  lost  their  way  and  sought  it  in  vain. 

The  doctor  waited  for  Marjorie  to  speak.  The 
healthy  warmth  and  tenderness  of  her  nature,  under  the 
crust  of  whims  and  pride,  had  come  to  the  surface  at  the 
little  factory -girl' s  voice. 

"  Did  you  see  how  she  looked  at  me?"  she  said  at 
last,  following  out  in  words  the  line  of  her  own  thoughts, 
"  what  a  mingling  of  awe  and  devotion  there  was  in  her 
eyes !  I  have  seen  just  such  in  the  faces  of  women  who 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXRURY.  81 

came  to  bring  their  offerings  to  the  shrine  of  the  Ma- 
donna in  the  chapels  of  the  Old  World.  But  to  make  a 
saint  of  me  !  Poor  child  !  poor  child  !  " 

"  I  have  not  come  across  a  more  genuine  outbreak  of 
feeling  in  a  long  while.  There's  something  in  that 
girl ;  I  must  keep  sight  of  her.'' 

"I  hope  you  will,  doctor.  How  blue  and  cold  her 
little  fingers  were  !  It  troubled  me." 

"  She's  one  of  the  factor j-spinners.  They  have  hard 
times  through  the  winters.  Poverty  is  a  bitter  thing, 
Miss  Carruthers." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  politely  assenting  to  his 
remark.  The  young  lady  had  an  impression,  however, 
that  poverty  was  associated  with  vulgarity  and  vice. 
She  had  heard  her  uncle  discourse  on  that  subject  very 
eloquently  many  time,s5  and  naturally  absorbed  his 
views. 

She  was,  however,  generous  to  the  core,  and,  what- 
ever her  theories  might  be,  Miss  Carruthers'  conduct 
was  quite  inconsistent  with  these,  when  her  feelings  were 
enlisted.  She  went  on  again  :  — 

"  Mr.  Whitmarsh,  it  appears,  has  done  her  some 
great  favor,  or  she  fancies  it.  I'm  curious  to  know  what 
it  could  have  been." 

"He  is  a  thoughtless,  generous  fellow,  and  the  child 
has  not  been  so  much  in  the  habit  of  receiving  favors  of 
any  sort  that  she  would  be  likely  to  forget  one ;  but 
a  nature  has  to  be  originally  fine  to  feel  gratitude  so 
deeply." 

With    that  remark   they  drew  up    to  the  low,   old- 


82  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

fashioned  farm-house  which  was  the  limit  of  their  drive. 
Dr.  A  very  was  only  gone  a  few  moments,  while  Miss 
Carruthers  remained  outside. 

On  their  return  home,  he  brought  out.  for  the  young 
lady's  amusement,  some  of  those  odd,  comical  stories  which 
the  doctor  told  with  such  effect  in  sick-rooms.  They 
put  the  young  lady  in  high  spirits  all  the  way  home. 
This  was  precisely  what  he  wanted.  He  had  a  purpose 
in  asking  Miss  Carruthers  out  on  this  drive.  It  de- 
veloped itself  as  soon  as  he  got  her  safely  into  the  house, 
where  Mrs.  "Whitmarsh  came  forward,  utterly  amazed  at 
the  change  and  brightness  in  her  cousin's  face. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to  her,  doctor?  Have 
you  led  her  to  some  secret  fountain  of  health  and  youth, 
since  you  went  away?  " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort;  but  you  yielded  to  one  of  my 
prescriptions,  against  your  better  judgment.  Now  I'm 
going  to  startle  you  with  a  fresh  order.  Miss  Car- 
ruthers, I  want  you  this  moment  to  go  right  in  with  me 
and  congratulate  Mr.  Whitmarsh  on  his  improvement." 

Marjorie  started  nervously:  "0  doctor,  don't;  I 
cannot  do  it.  Wait  until  he  is  stronger.  I  have  been 
dreading  this  meeting  all  along." 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  looked  thoroughly  aghast  at  this 
proposition.  "  They  are  neither  of  them  fit  for  it, 
doctor  !  "  she  broke  out  afresh.  "Think  of  their  last 
meeting,  and  what  a  strain  this  one  must  be." 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  the  doctor,  the  grim  look 
on  his  face  that  it  was  useless  to  attempt  to  oppose.  "  I 
know  what  I'm  about.  The  sooner  a  disagreeable  thing 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  83 

is  over  the  better.  Don't  stop  to  remove  hat  or  shawl, 
but  come  straight  in  here  with  me  this  moment.  Miss 
Carruthers." 

And  Marjorie  went,  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  fluttered 
and  terrified,  followed  after. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  lying  on  the  bed  in  the  shaded 
room,  his  head  turned  a  little  on  one  side,  had  no  inti- 
mation of  the  lady's  presence,  until  he  heard  the  doctor's 
voice  in  its  quiet,  matter-of-course  key :  "I  have 
brought  our  friend  in  here  to  see  you  after  her  ride,  Mr. 
Whitmarsh." 

The  man  turned  then  and  saw  her  standing  at  his 
bedside,  —  the  woman  who  had  saved  his  life. 

There  she  stood  in  her  riding-dress  and  hat,  in  her 
proud,  delicate  beauty,  her  face  a  good  deal  agitated, 
but  the  light  and  color  in  her  cheeks  and  eyes,  which  the 
long  ride  had  brought  there. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  been  looking  forward  to 
this  time,  and  wondering  whether  all  words  would  not 
fail  him,  falling  mean  and  small  beneath  the  level  of  his 
feeling,  and  now  it  had  come  when  least  he  expected 
it. 

Marjorie  did  not  speak.  The  swell  of  that  memory 
when  last  she  stood  by  the  bedside,  looking  down  on  the 
face  so  like  a  dead  man's,  on  that  very  bed,  came  in  on 
her  soul  like  the  rush  of  incoming  sea-tides. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  spoke  first,  his  words  under 
their  great  burden  of  feeling  creeping  out  slowly  on  the 
silence :  — 

"I  owe   you   my  life, — my  life,  Miss    Carruthers. 


84  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

What  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  that?  "  He  had 
taken  her  hand  while  he  spoke,  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh 
was  crying  softly  behind  the  doctor. 

"Do  not  speak  of  it."  Marjorie's  voice  shook  out 
breathlessly.  "You  would  have  done  the  same  for 
me." 

"  I  cannot  tell.  There  were  strong,  stalwart  men  all 
around  me,  and  not  one  but  left  me  to  die.  It  was  you 
that  dragged  me  back  from  the  clutch  of  death ;  you, 
delicate,  nervous,  shrinking  woman,  to  whom  I  owe  this 
very  breath,  for  which  I  thank  you." 

"I  could  not  believe  you  were  dead;  I  would  not 
when  they  all  said  so,"  answered  Marjorie,  a  flash  of  the 
old  fire  through  her  tears. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  lifted  the  long,  slender,  beauti- 
ful fingers  in  the  light  and  gazed  at  them.  "  It  was 
these,"  he  said  half  to  himself,  "  that  stanched  the 
blood,  and  held  the  wound  until  help  came  !  How  did 
they  do  it?  "  » 

"  They  did  it  because  God  helped  .them,"  answered 
Dr.  Avery  now,  thinking  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
interfere  and  break  the  stress  of  an  interview  that  he 
had  foreseen  must  bear  with  awful  vividness  on  all  their 
feelings.  "Miss  Carruthers  did  her  own  part  nobly 
and  well,  but  when  I  heard  all,  I  said,  *  Give  God  the 
glory.'  " 

They  were  the  best  words.  While  Marjorie  had  been 
standing  by  the  bedside,  beholding  this  man  whose  life 
had  been  given  her,  a  feeling  of  her  own  small  share  in 
the  work  of  that  night,  of  humility  and  helplessness,  had 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  85 

come  over  the  girl.  "Yes."  she  said,  solemnly,  "it 
was  not  I ;  I  think  it  was  God  who  helped  me." 

As  for  a  real,  living,  personal  God,  Ben  Whitmarsh 
had  left  that  long  ago  among  the  dreams  and  faiths  of 
his  boyhood.  Do  not  mistake  the  man  here.  With  all 
his  tumblings  around  the  world,  his  life  had  been  singu- 
larly pure.  Indolent,  aesthetic,  pleasure-seeking,  looking 
upon  all  human  life  as  a  sort  of  vast  comedy,  with  his 
robust  strength  and  his  happy  organization,  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh  had  'a  sound  self-respect  and  a  native  scorn 
of  whatsoever  was  mean,  ignoble,  and  vicious,  which  had 
kept  his  life  sweet  and  wholesome. 

He  had  read  Spinoza  and  his  disciples,  and  the  young 
man's  opinions  had  been  shaped,  more  or  less,  in  the 
world  of  German  pantheism  and  French  philosophy. 

Who,  he  reasoned,  had  any  means  of  assuring  himself 
that  a  personal  Power  created  the  world  and  administered 
its  laws  ?  The  ordinary  human  mind  had  always  needed 
some  creed  on  which  to  anchor  itself,  and  the  system  of 
Christianity  was  no  doubt  the  finest  and  noblest  which 
had  ever  been  devised,  —  far  better  than  the  mythologies 
of  Greece  or  Rome,  or  the  graceful  superstitions  and 
legends  of  the  mediaeval  ages,  although  each  system,  no 
doubt,  had  its  elements  of  truth. 

So,  in  the  pride  and  strength  of  his  youth  and  man- 
hood, Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  disposed  of  his  creed; 
but,  in  that  hour  of  his  human  weakness  and  need,  the 
soul  of  the  young  man  turned,  as  long  ago  it  had 
turned  in  his  childhood,  to  something  warmer,  truer, 
better,  than  German  pantheism  or  French  philosophy. 


86  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

Was  there  a  real,  tender  heart  of  God  somewhere,  who 
had  cared  for  him  in  his  utmost  strait,  and  given  this 
girl  her  courage  and  strength  to  rescue  him  ?  Was  the 
•world  God's  after  all ;  and  had  that  God  some  work  for 
him  —  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  —  to  do,  that  his  life  had 
been  given  back  to  him  from  the  gates  of  death  ? 

Nobody  knew  in  those  few  silent  moments  what  was 
in  the  man's  swift  thoughts,  but  he  would  not  forget 
them  through  all  the  life  to  come. 

Dr.  A  very  felt  now  that  it  was  high  time  to  give  the 
interview  a  more  natural,  commonplace  tone;  a  few 
words  that  "clinched,"  to  use  his  own  quaint  phrase, 
were  worth  a  dozen  sermons.  He  came  forward  now, 
saying,  "Miss  Carruthers,  you  had  better  take  a  chair 
after  your  long  drive,  and  we'll  nave  a  quiet 
family  chat  to  ourselves;"  and  he  actually  pushed  a 
seat  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  Marjorie  sat  down ;  and 
they  had,  after  the  strain  and  excitement,  one  of  the 
pleasantest,  most  natural  half  hours  in  the  world.  The 
doctor  avoided  all  agitating  topics,  and  told  some  stories 
with  his  own  crisp  flavor  of  fun,  which  set  them  all  to 
laughing,  and  then  one  and  another  took  part  in  the  talk, 
as  though  nothing  had  happened  since  they  last  sat  and 
joked  together  under  the  family  roof. 

"  Your  cousin  is  the  most  unaccountable  young 
woman,  Mr.  Whitmarsh,"  said  the  doctor.  "  She  was 
fired  with  indignation  because  people  on  the  road  were 
determined  to  make  a  heroine  of  her.  I  think  they 
really  envied  my  poor  old  mare,  and  I  was  alarmed  lest 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  87 

their  enthusiasm  should  take  the  form  of  supplanting  her 
in  the  work  of  dragging  us  over  the  snow." 

Marjorie's  laugh  had  its  old,  silvery  ring,  all  the 
fresh  sweetness  of  the  girl's  best  side  sparkling  through 
it:  "It  was  thoroughly  absurd  of  them  to  make  a 
heroine  of  me,  but  I  think  it  was  equally  so  for  me  to  be 
angry  with  the  silly  geese.  When  I  was  a  child  they 
used  to  tell  me  my  pride  was  as  quick  and  touchy  as 
that  of  some  Spanish  hidalgo.  I  haven't  improved 
much  yet,  I  fear." 

"  Yes  you  have,  my  dear.  I  remember  what  you 
were  then  !  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Whitinarsh. 

Everybody  laughed  at  this  ambiguous  compliment. 
'•'  Poor  Eleanoi^!  what  a  hard  time  of  it  I  led  you  !  " 
said  Marjorie ;  and  then  her  cousin's  husband  came  in, 
and  his  look  of  amazed  bewilderment  was  comical. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  these  people, 
doctor?" 

His  wife  answered :  "  He's  had  Marjorie  off  on  a  ten- 
mile  drive,  John ;  and  as  for  Ben,  —  but  he  shall  speak 
for  himself." 

"I  feel  as  though  I  should  be  on  my  feet  in  a  week. 
The  doctor's  a  necromancer;-"  but  while  the  invalid  said 
this  with  a  flash  of  his  old  spirit,  he  was  still  too  fee- 
ble to  be  so  much  as  bolstered  up  in  the  bed  on  which 
he  lay. 

Then  the  doctor  spoke :  "I  consider  your  brother  out 
of  danger  now.  It  has  been  a  hard  struggle,  but  with 
his  fine  constitution  he  will  make  leaps  henceforward." 

Everybody's  joy  was  too  great  for  a  word,  until  Mrs. 


88  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

Whitmarsh  broke  out :  "I  must  do  something,  John. 
Can't  we  have  all  the  bells  rung  and  a  day  of  general 
jubilee  proclaimed  throughout  Tuxbury?" 

"  Wait  until  I  get  well  enough  Eleanor,  to  lead  the 
dance  with  Miss  Carruthers,"  said  her  brother-in  law. 

So,  where  Death  had  been  lying  in  wait  so  lately, 
these  people  wreathed  with  green  tendrils  of  talk  and 
jest  the  black,  yawning  gulfs  of  their  memory.  It  was 
best  so. 

"I  was  right,  you  see,"  said  Dr.  Avery  in  an  aside 
to  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  when  he  had  left  the  sick-room, 
taking  the  others  with  him.  "I  foresaw  the  first 
meeting  between  them  must  try  both,  but  you  see  how 
smoothly  we've  carried  them  over  the  beakers." 

"Yes,  I  see.  Frooi  this  time  I  will  not  set  up  an 
opinion  in  antagonism  to  yours.  -I'm  converted  thor- 
oughly, doctor.  But  it's  only  because  you're  a  magi- 
cian and  carry  an  invisible  wand  and  wear  enchanted 
armor." 

"Ah,  my  dear  madam,  a  little  pluck  and  a  little 
sound  sense  are  the  magicians  which  will  slay  so  many 
of  the  lions  in  our  paths  !  " 

He  glanced  at  Marjorie  Carruthers.  She  stood  by 
the  mantel,  her  face  roused  into  its  native  animation  as 
she  chatted  with  her  cousin's  husband.  It  was  all  as  he 
would  have  it  there,  and  as  for  the  invalid  in  the  other 
room,  he  was  asleep  by  this  time,  and  his  wound  would 
need  no  care  until  to-morrow. 

So,  without  another  word,  the  doctor  sprang  into  his 
gig  and  drove  off,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  thoughts  there 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY.  89 

rose  before  him,  with  some  wistful  pathos  in  it,  the 
brown,  peaked  face  and  the  scarlet  lips  of  the  little  girl 
he  had  met  on  the  road  to  Tuxbury. 

"Berry  Shumway,"  murmured  the  man  to  himself. 
"I  must  tuck  away  that  name  in  some  corner  of  my 
memory,  and  make  use  of  it  the  very  first  chance  I  can 
get." 


90  THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IT  was  nothing  unusual  for  Dr.  A  very  to  have  a  sum- 
mons to  the  workmen's  settlement  just  outside  the  limits 
of  Tuxburj.  His  long  professional  experience  in  a  wide 
country  district  had  given  him  a  habit  of  "  killing  two 
birds  with  one  stone."  So,  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  his  horse's  head  homeward,  the  old  physician 
suddenly  checked  himself  with  a  vague  sense  of  some- 
thing yet  left  undone.  He  stroked  his  thick  gray  beard 
doubtfully  a  moment,  then  shouted  out  to  the  workman 
who  stood  in  the  doorway  watching  his  departure,  "  Do 
you  know  a  family  by  the  name  of  Shumway  living 
about  here  ?  " 

"  There's  only  two  of  'em,  —  a  brother  and  sister,  — 
half-a-dozen  houses  this  side  of  the  end  of  the  next 
street." 

Less  than  three  minutes  after  this  reply  a  loud  knock 
brought  Berry  Shumway  to  the  front  door.  She  had 
just  returned  from  her  day's  work,  and  set  promptly 
about  kindling  a  fire,  and  her  eyes  were  half-blinded 
with  smoke  when  they  first  met  the  doctor's.  "Good- 
evening,  my  little  girl ;  you  are  just  the  small  person  I 
am  in  search  of;  "  and  he  gave  her  his  hand.  "  Will 
you  let  me  come  in  a  moment  ?  " 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  91 

"  Oh,  yes.  sir,  if  you  please,"  making  way  for  him  in 
a  kind  of  blank  amazement  that  was  amusing. 

"Did  you  think  anybody  was  sick  here,  doctor?" 
she  asked,  timidly,  as  she  placed  him  a  chair  near  the 
fire. 

"  Oh,  no;  but  doctors  sometimes  like  to  make  visits 
outside  of  a  sick-room ;  one  enjoys  getting  hold  of  a 
sound  apple  after  poking  about  for  a  long  while  among 
gnarled  and  specked  ones." 

Berry  laughed  at  that,  bustling  about,  a  good  deal 
excited  and  fluttered  at  this  unexpected  visit ;  a  little 
uncertain  and  worried,  too,  as  to  the  meaning  of  it. 

The  doctor  took  in  the  whole  room  with  a  rapid  glance 
or  two.  It  was  humble  even  to  poverty,  and  gave  you  a 
general  feeling  that  everything  had  been  strained  to  the 
uttermost,  —  that  there  was  nothing  to  spare  in  larder  or 
coal-bin.  Yet  wherever  little  Berry  Shumway's  red 
fingers  put  themselves  there  were  .  order  and  cleanliness ; 
an  attempt  at  harmony  and  grace,  too,  cropping  out  here 
and  there  in  the  blue  mugs  on  the  mantel  and  the  little 
red  vase  on  the  cotton  cover  of  the  table. 

"  There,  never  mind  putting  things  to  rights  any 
further.  I  came  on  purpose  to  see  you,  Berry,  and  I 
can  only  stay  a  short  time." 

"  Yes,  sir;  "  and  she  came  and  sat  down  by  him,  with 
her  pinched,  sallow  face  wide  awake  and  flushed  all 
over,  and  looked  at  the  glittering  gray  beard,  and  the 
bright,  pleasant  eyes  a  little  uneasily. 

Dr.  Avery  understood  that  sort  of  look  from  the  poor 
and  worried.  He  was  used  to  dealing  with  it,  and  he 


92  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

went  on  talking  in  a  way  most  likely  to  set  the  girl  at 
her  ease,  about  the  weather  and  the  factories  and  the 
town,  and  how.  as  he  had  been  close  by  on  a  visit  to  a 
sick  boy,  and  remembered  the  little  girl  he  had  met  in 
the  road  the  other  day,  he  thought  he  would  just  drop  in 
upon  her. 

u  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  did  !  "  the  pinched  face  coming 
out  into  a  great  glow  of  wondering  pleasure.  "  But  I 
didn't  s'pose  you'd  ever  remember  me  again,  you  have 
so  many  people  to  think  about." 

"  They  haven't  put  you  out  of  my  mind,  at  all  events, 
you  see,  Berry.  I  think  the  lady  who  was  with  me 
will  not  forget  you  either." 

The  worry  and  bashfulness  quite  thawed  out  of  her 
face  now:  "0  sir.  if  I  had  stopped  to  think,  I  could 
never  have  said  what  I  did ;  but  the  words  came  and  I 
could  not  help  it." 

"  They  did  no  harm,  my  child.  On  the  contrary, 
they  did  honor  to  your  heart  for  taking  so  warm  an 
interest  in  the  life  of  one  who  was  almost  a  stranger  to 
you." 

"  But  he  was  not  that.  —  at  least  not  exactly ;  he  did 
not  seem  so,"  faltered  Berry. 

"You  have  seen  young  Whitmarsh,  then?  I  should 
have  fancied  he  was  quite  unknown  to  you  if  you  had 
not  let  that  remark  fall  the  other  day." 

"I  had  never  seen  him  but  once;  at  least  not  to 
speak  to  him;  but  I  shall  never  forget  that  time,"  her 
mouth  quivering. 

There  was  a  breath  of  silence.     Berry  looked  up  into 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXDURT.  93 

the  kindly,  honest  face  opposite  her.  She  was  a  child 
still  in  most  things,  and  her  glance  went  straight  to  the 
something  warm  and  wise  and  true  in  the  old  man's 
face.  "Would  you  really  like  to  hear  about  it,  doc- 
tor?" she  asked. 

"  I  really  should  very  much,  if  you  feel  like  telling 
me." 

So  it  all  came  out  in  her  simple,  touching  way,  with 
quick  pauses  and  hurryings  of  breath  that  gave  their 
own  effects  to  the  story;  but  the  doctor  saw  it  all  as 
Hardy  had  seen  it  before :  the  low,  red  sunset  in  the 
west,  and  the  girl  coming  up  the  factory-road  and  sitting 
down  on  the  stone  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  to  count  her 
little  hoard  of  factory  savings,  and  the  strange  gentle- 
man slipping  off  his  horse  and  drawing  near  softly,  and 
laying  the  five-dollar  note  by  the  small  pile  on  the  girl's 
knee. 

"  One  who  knew  the  swift,  generous  impulses  of  the 
fellow  would  not  be  surprised  at  anything  of  that  sort," 
the  doctor  reasoned. 

And  again  Berry's  voice  broke  in,  her  face  glowing 
out  of  its  pinched  sallowness :  "  Nobody  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  being  done  before,  and  afterward  I  found 
out  who  the  gentleman  was;  and,  though  he  was  so  fine 
and  grand,  he  seemed  just  like  a  friend  after  all,  and  he 
always  would,  though  I  never  spoke  to  him  again ;  and 
when  I  heard  about  those  dreadful  murderers,  and  how 
he  would  certainly  have  died  if  the  beautiful  lady  had 
not  saved  his  life,  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  go  around  the 
world  to  thank  her  just  once,"  her  eyes  clouding  with 


94  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

thick  tears.  "  I  knew  who  she  was  as  soon  as  I  caught 
sight  of  her  face  in  the  carriage." 

' '  What  odd  bits  of  pathos  and  tenderness  are  always 
turning  up,  if  only  one  looked  deeply  enough  down  into 
this  human  life  of  ours  ! ;'  the  doctor  thought;  and  then 
Berry's  next  question  came  quick  on  her  last  period  : 
"You  think  he  will  get  well  for  certain?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he  is  in  the  right  road  now,  and  quite  out 
of  danger." 

Her  smile  shone  out  sweetly  across  the  bright,  un- 
steady lips,  transforming  all  her  homeliness  into  some- 
thing very  like  beauty.  "Hardy  will  be  so  glad  to 
hear  that  too  !  "  she  said. 

"  Hardy  is  your  brother,  I  imagine  ?  " 

' '  Yes ;  we  are  all  that  is  left  in  the  world  to  each 
other." 

"  Your  brother  works  at  the  Mills,  I  suppose  ?  " 

A  swift  pain  shot  across  the  peaked  face.  The  doctor 
saw  that  he  had  struck  upon  some  live  grief  now.  "He 
used  to  work  there  not  very  long  ago,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Avery.  He  was  not  a  man  to  press 
secrets  out  of  one. 

Again  the  girl's  glance  went  up  to  his  face  with  the 
curious,  half-doubtful  look  of  a  child:  "But  he  was 
turned  out  not  long  ago." 

The  doctor  began  now  to  get  hold  of  the  secret  of  the 
pinched  features  and  the  general  lack  of  heathful  vital- 
ity, which  told  its  own  story  of  bitter  poverty  to  his  dis- 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY.  95 

cerning  eyes.     "  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  Berry.     How 
did  it  happen?" 

"  It  was  when  the  fight  happened  over  there  nearly 
three  months  ago." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember  hearing  about  that,"  added  the 
doctor. 

"  But  Hardy  was  not  to  blame,  — not  any  more  than 
you  or  I,  doctor.  It  was  all  a  dreadful  wrong  and  mis- 
take," her  whole  manner  eager,  hurried,  nervous,  yet 
with  the  honest  straightforwardness  of  profound  convic- 
tion through  it  all. 

"  I  do  not  know  your  brother,  Berry,"  answered  Dr. 
Avery,  "but  I  should  be  very  glad,  for  his  sister's  sake, 
to  be  satisfied  of  his  innocence." 

She  choked  over  those  words,  their  calm,  wise  kind- 
ness and  interest  going  down  into  the  sorest  place  of  her 
grief.  Berry  had  been  a  little  morbid  about  talking 
over  the  matter  with  the  neighbors,  even  though  she  was 
pretty  certain  of  their  sympathy,  for  Hardy  had  few 
enemies  among  his  class. 

But  it  did  not  come  hard  to  tell  the  whole  story  to 
Dr.  Avery,  and  the  girl  went  over  it  from  beginning  to 
end,  just  as  she  had  had  it  from  her  brother,  — just  as 
from  her  inmost  soul  she  believed  it.  And  although 
long  experience  had  made  Dr.  Avery  somewhat  cautious 
in  accepting  only  one  side  of  a  story,  still,  in  this  in- 
stance, there  was  nothing  at  all  impossible.  He  knew 
the  sort  of  rough  justice  which,  in  case  of  any  insurrec- 
tion among  workmen,  must  be  dealt  out  to  the  offenders ; 
and  it  was  not  unlikely  that  the  heaviest  blows  would 


96  TffE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

fall  where  they  were  least  deserved.  An  honest,  quick- 
blooded  fellow  would  have  been  likely  to  spring  to  the 
rescue  of  a  friend  under  circumstances  such  as  Berry  had 
related,  and  it  would  be  sufficient  for  Hardy  Shumway's 
condemnation  that  he  was  found  in  the  thick  of  the 
melee. 

Poor  Berry  !  She  had  choked  and  stammered  through 
her  story,  but  when  Dr.  Avery  put  out  his  hand,  and, 
patting  her  brown  head,  said  in  his  voice  full  of  kindness 
and  sympathy  and  the  cheeriest  encouragement,  ' '  It 
was  very  hard,  —  very  cruel  on  you  and  your  brother ; 
I  wish  I  had  known  it  sooner,"  the  girl  just  broke  right 
down,  and  her  sobbing  for  a  few  moments  was  like  a 
grieved  baby's. 

She  had  gone  a-cold  and  a-hungry  many  times  during 
the  last  three  months  without  crying,  and  now  a  few 
words  had  overcome  her  like  this. 

But  not  for  long.  The  tears  were  conquered  in  a 
few  moments,  and  she  looked  up  with  her  wet  eyes,  and 
her  first  words  were  still  half  a  sob :  "I  am  —  so 
ashamed  of  myself;  but  we've  had  a  great  deal  to  go 
through,  —  Hardy  and  I ;  and  when  you  spoke  so  kindly 
just  now,  it  was  more  than  I  could  bear." 

"  Don't  go  hunting  after  excuses,  my  poor  child. 
You  have  carried  yourself  very  bravely  through  a  long 
and  bitter  trial,"  thinking  that,  whatever  the  brother 
might  prove,  the  child  there  deserved  more  praise  than  it 
might  be  wise  to  bestow  upon  her.  "You  must  have 
suffered  a  great  deal  in  a  great  many  ways,"  looking  at 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  97 

the  pinched  cheeks,  and  reading  a  story  there  which 
cost  the  old  man's  heart  a  pang. 

"  I  didn't  mind  it  so  much  for  my  sake  as  for  Hardy's. 
I  was  afraid  the  trouble  would  crush  him ;  ' '  and  then  in 
her  simple,  pathetic  way,  she  went  on  to  describe  his  un- 
successful effort  to  obtain  work  in  the  dead  of  winter ;  but 
she  hardly  touched  upon  the  poverty  both  had  borne,  for 
the  most  part,  silently. 

By  this  time  Dr.  Avery  found  that  he  had  long  tran- 
scended the  limits  he  had  permitted  for  the  visit. 

He  rose  now,  taking  the  little  red  hands  in  his. 
"Keep  your  warm,  brave  heart  to  the  end,  my  little 
girl,"  he  said.  "  Brighter  days  are  always  sure  to  come 
to  such  as  you,  and  I  think  they're  not  far  off.  You've 
made  a  truer  heroine,  Berry,  than  many  a  fine  lady 
would  have  done  in  your  strait." 

The  wistful  face  quivered  under  his  praise  :  "I  could 
always  have  borne  it,  only  sometimes  in  dreadful  dark 
places,  when  it  seemed  as  though  God  had  forgotten  us." 

"Ah,  those  dreadful  dark  places!"  repeated  the 
doctor,  remembering  some  gulfs  in  his  own  past.  "  I 
wonder  if  they  don't  come  to  every  life  of  man  or  woman 
that  has  really  lived?  But  I  am  getting  out  of  your 
depth,  child.  Good-by,  and  don't  forget  what  I  say  ; 
the  God  you  trusted  will  not  fail  you." 

Berry  stood  in  the  door,  following  the  mud-spattered 
old  chaise  up  the  road,  with  eyes  in  which  the  tears 
stood,  and  yet  fairly  radiant. 

But  the  doctor,  well  started  on  his  way,  wheeled  sud- 
denly about  and  drew  up  before  a  butcher's  stall,  which 


98  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

aspired  to  the  title  of  "  Market "  in  the  settlement. 
The  best  brace  of  chickens,  a  great  succulent  steak,  a 
bunch  of  crisp  celery,  and  a  peck  of  big,  mealy  "  Caroli- 
nas,"  all  went  into  a  covered  basket,  which  was  promptly 
ordered  to  the  house  of  Hardy  Shumway,  the  doctor 
adding  no  name  nor  message  by  which  the  inmates  could 
find  a  clue  to  the  donor,  though  Berry's  keen  wits 
would  go  straight  as  an  arrow  to  the  mark ;  the  friends 
who  could  afford  to  send  her  fat  chickens  and  juicy 
steaks  being  so  few  that  she  had  no  need  to  tell  them  off 
on  her  red,  chilled  fingers. 

"  She  shall  have  one  good  dinner  at  least ;  I've  secured 
that,"  muttered  the  doctor,  as  he  bundled  his  square, 
broad  figure  once  more  inside  of  his  chaise.  ' '  Her  face 
shows  it's  been  a  long  time  since  she  had  anything  of 
that  sort." 

Then  he  settled  himself  back  and  feil  into  a  brown 
study. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AT  the  stone  cottage  everything  was  going  with  won- 
derful smoothness  these  days.  Young  Whitmarsh  was 
gaining  ground  every  hour,  his  vital  forces  rallying  at 
last  with  their  native  energy. 

He  could  sit  up  every  day  now,  and  joke  even  while 
his  wound  was  being  dressed. 

In  accordance  with  Dr.  Avery's  advice,  he  was  per- 
mitted to  dwell  as  little  as  possible  on  the  fatal  night 
which  came  so  very  near  bringing  no  sunrise  to  him . 
but  for  all  that,  Ben  Whitmarsh  knew  whatever  there 
was  to  tell,  for  the  affair  still  remained  shrouded  in 
mystery  as  at  the  beginning. 

The  horsa  which  the  young  man  rode  that  night  had 
been  found  at  the  stable-door  in  the  early  morning ;  the 
highwaymen  perhaps  fearing  lest  the  animal's  detention 
should  furnish  some  clue  to  their  discovery,  he  had 
probably  4)^n  allowed  to  make  his  escape  the  moment 
his  rider  dropped  off. 

One  significant  fact  here  developed  itself.  The 
telegram  which  young  Whitmarsh  had  received  from  his 
brother,  authorizing  him  to  draw  five  thousand  dollars 
for  the  payment  of  the  hands,  had  reached  the  latter  in 
the  morning. 

The  president  of  the  bank  was  an  old  friend  of  the 


100  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

elder  brother,  and  though  the  interview  betwixt  the 
gentlemen  occupied  considerable  time,  a  small  portion 
only  was  consumed  in  arranging  their  business. 

It  was  settled  that  the  money  should  be  ready  for 
"Whitmarsh  when  he  called  in  the  afternoon. 

The  bank  was  an  old  building;  an  ambitious  one, 
with  columns  and  stone  facade,  being  at  this  very  time 
in  process  of  erection  in  the  town. 

The  president's  office,  where  the  conversation  trans- 
pired, was  a  small  inner  apartment,  at  one  end  of  which 
was  a  dark  entry  opening  into  a  narrow  alley,  little  used 
as  a  thoroughfare. 

The  room  being  uncomfortably  warm  that  morning,  the 
president  had  set  the  inner  and  outer  door  ajar, —  a  habit 
not  unusual  with  him,  —  and  he  had  quite  lost  sight  of 
these  open  doors  during  the  time  he  was  engaged  with 
his  visitor. 

A  moment  after  the  latter 's  disappearance  some  noise, 
like  that  of  creaking  footsteps  in  the  entry,  recalled  the 
open  doors  to  the  gentleman's  attention.  He  must  have 
been  a  little  startled,  for  long  afterward  he  remembered 
getting  up  at  the  moment  and  going  out  into  the  entry, 
and  even  looking  up  and  down  the  alley,  but  that  was,  as 
usual,  silent  and  deserted. 

The  outer  door,  too,  was  closed,  but,  seeing  nobody,  the 
gentleman  fancied  that  was  the  work  of  the  wind,  which 
was  blowing  freshly,  and  he  was  convinced  the  sounds 
he  had  heard  came  from  the  same  source,  and  he  care- 
fully relocked  and  bolted  the  doors. 

There  was  no  doubt,  however,  in  the  minds  of  the 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  101 

detectives,  who  listened  to  the  president's  story  and 
examined  the  premises,  that  some  person  had  been  se- 
creted in  the  entry,  and  that  it  was  retreating  footsteps 
which  at  the  time  attracted  the  gentleman's  attention. 
Indeed,  he  himself  was  of  the  same  opinion.  Every 
syllable  of  a  conversation  transpiring  in  ordinary  tones 
in  the  president's  room  could  be  distinctly  overheard  in 
the  entry ;  and  it  must  have  been  in  this  way  that  the 
men  who  had  attacked  Benjamin  "Whitmarsh  had  learned 
the  secret  of  the  money  which  they  supposed  him  to 
have  in  his  possession  on  his  road  to  Tuxbury  that 
night. 

But  business  promptness  had  not  yet  become  a  habit 
with  the  young  man.  His  brother  doubted  whether  it 
ever  would;  and  when,  to  his  amazement,  he  chanced 
upon  an  old  travelling  friend  with  whom  he  had  scaled 
the  Pyrenees,  and  jested  and  read  poetry  and  talked 
philosophy  and  politics  down  the  Ehine,  Ben  Whitmarsh 
was  totally  oblivious  of  time,  living  over  the  old  events 
and  landscapes  again. 

He  was  as  much  chagrined  as  it  was  in  his  good  na- 
ture to  be,  when,  on  calling  late  in  the  afternoon,  he 
found  the  bank  closed  and  the  president  gone. 

"John  will  be  aggravated,  and  the  men  must  go 
without  their  money  another  day.  I  hope  the  wives  and 
babies  won't  suffer,"  muttered  Ben  Whitmarsh,  putting 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  whistling  an  old  Spanish  measure. 
The  cold,  yellow  light  faded  in  the  west  as  he  took  the 
road  toward  Tuxbury  and  his  fate. 


102  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

After  the  first  meeting,  Marjorie  Carruthers  and  he 
never  alluded  to  that  night.  It  was  not  a  topic  for  ordi- 
nary conversation  betwixt  these  two ;  but  they  found  no 
lack  of  other  subjects.  They  saw  each  other  every  day 
now,  and  lived  over  the  old  hours  of  dream  and  travel 
when  life  was  a  long  aesthetic  holiday  to  both,  and 
neither  knew  the  existence  of  the  other. 

"It  was  as  good  as  going  abroad  one's  self,"  Mrs, 
Whitmarsh  told  her  husband.  There  were  long,  blue, 
sunny  days  on  the  Mediterranean,  whose  every  singing 
wave  had,  to  the  highly  cultured  man  and  woman,  his- 
toric voices  telling  of  the  beauty  and  glory  that  had  per- 
ished ;  there  was  the  enchanted  ground  of  Italy  to  wander 
over ;  there  were  sunny  France  and  golden  Spain,  and  the 
old  English  castles  and  green  meadows  to  haunt  again ; 
and  Marjorie' s  eyes  would  open  their  mysteries  of  splen- 
dor, and  the  glow  of  her  girlhood  would  kindle  up  her 
face  again,  and  she  would  forget  the  chasm  which  lay 
betwixt  those  days  and  these  at  Tuxbury,  —  the  chasm 
in  which  she  had  believed  the  best  of  her  youth  and  life 
lay  buried. 

Marjorie  Carruthers,  too,  had  beefed  from  her  child- 
hood on  the  old  English  authors,  "ripe,  mellow,  juicy 
fruits,  fit  for  the  gods,"  her  uncle  used  to  say.  She  had 
lisped  Chaucer's  sweet  ajtegories  and  Spencer's  stately 
rhythms  when  other  J^mren  of  her  age  had  not  fairly 
outgrown  the  magjcsin  Mother  Goose's  melodies. 

Drinking  from  her  earliest  memory  at  the  old,  sweet 
fountains  of  the  youth  of  English  literature,  the  girlhood 
of  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  been  haunted  by  :  — 


THE   MILLS    OFfTUXDVRY.  103 

"Those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still." 

Here,  too,  the  man  and  woman  met  on  common 
ground,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  having  had  from  his  boy- 
hood a  passionate  fondness  for  the  "old  marrowy- 
Saxon."  They  were  on  "Philip  Sydney,"  one  after- 
noon when  the  doctor  called.  He  was  one  of  Marjorie's 
enthusiasms.  When  she  was  a  girl  and  had  her  foolish 
dreams  about  some  ideal  lover,  she  used  to  wish  Heaven 
had  made  her  such  an  one  as  this  historical*  English 
knight,  courtier,  gentleman,  who  in  the  sunset  of  the  old 
chivalric  age  seems  to  stand  out  touched  with  its  last 
radiance,  the  living  embodiment  of  all  its  noblest,  most 
gracious,  and  tenderest  elements. 

It  so  happened  that  Philip  Sydney  was  one  of  the 
doctor's  heroes  too.  "  There  are  sayings  of  his  that,  if 
laid  away  on  some  shelf  of  one's  youthful  memory,  will 
grow,  like  wine,  sweeter  and  mellower  through  all  the 
years  of  one's  life." 

"  Let  us  have  one,  doctor,"  said  Marjorie,  leaning  for- 
ward, her  lips  apart,  while  Ben  Whitmarsh,  now  equal 
to  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  leaned  back  in  his  easy- 
chair,  and  his  sister-in-law,  a  little  on  one  side,  gave  her- 
self in  about  equal  proportions  to  the  talk  and  her  baby. 

"  There  was  one  saying  which  I  stowed  away  in  my 
boyhood,  and  I've  taken  it  out  many  a  day  since,  looked 
at  it  and  shaken  it  up,  and  I  think  it  shines  with  a 
clearer  radiance  each  time  I  ponder  it ;  this  is  it :  '  Doing 


104  THE   MILLS   OF  TUX B DRY. 

good  is  the  only  certainly  happy  action  of  a  man's 
life.'  " 

Each  pondered  the  words  a  moment  with  serious,  a 
little  softened  faces. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,"  added  Marjorie,  at  last.  "I 
suspect,  however,  one  would  have  to  live  that  sentence  to 
know  precisely  what  meaning  is  in  it.  Philip  Sydney's 
speeches  are  usually  of  that  sort." 

Dr.  Avery  had  been  watching  his  time,  sure  that  it 
would  come  :  "Philip  Sydney's  words  were  like  a  wicker- 
gate  which  opened  of  its  own  accord  into  the  path  before 
him.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Whitmarsh  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  make  any  better  what  Miss  Carruthers 
has  just  said." 

"  But  you  can  add  something  out  of  your  own  experi- 
ence." 

"Precious  little  there,  doctor, — precious  little," 
shaking  his  head  with  a  smile,  half  amused,  half  sad. 

"  I  know  a  little  girl  who  would  eagerly  contradict 
that.  I  can  see  Tier'  little,  peaked,  brown  face  all  alive 
as  she  did  it,"  said  Dr.  Avery. 

"Who  in  the  world  is  she'?7'  asked  the  invalid,  with 
a  good  deal  of  interest;  and  his  siste/-in-law  added, 
"  Yes,  do  tell  us,  doctor,  —  who  is  she  ?  " 

"It  was  our  little  friend,"  turning  to  Miss  Carru- 
thers, "whom  we  met  in  our  drive  the  other  afternoon. 
I  saw  her  yesterday." 

Marjorie  glanced  in  a  rapid,  undecided  way  toward 
the  young  man.  It  was  evident  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
incident  which  had  transpired  in  her  drive. 


THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBURT.  105 

It  had,  of  course,  to  come  out  now.  Marjorie  left  it 
in  the  doctor's  hands,  and  the  story  lost  nothing  there. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Ben,  when  Marjorie  related  it 
to  me,"  said  Eleanor;  "but  she  absolutely  denied  me. 
Wasn't  it  a  singular,  touching  incident?  " 

The  story  had  undoubtedly  moved  young  Whitmarsh, 
yet  through  it  all  he  was  perhaps  thinking  less  of  Berry 
Shumway  than  of  the  woman  whom  she  had  thanked  for 
saving  his  life,  and  whose  native  delicacy  shrank  from 
his  knowing  that  fact  even. 

' '  It  must  have  been  on  your  own  account  solely,  Miss 
Carruthers,"  he  said,  when  the  doctor  had  finished, 
"that  all  this  happened.  The  child  has  no  reason  to 
care  whether  I  am  dead  or  alive." 

"  Ah,  but  you're  mistaken  there,  Whitmarsh,"  inter- 
posed Dr.  Avery.  "I  had  the  facts  from  her  own 
lips." 

"You  had,  doctor?"  with  a  glance  of  amazement. 
"  What  are  they,  then  ?  " 

The  ladies  leaned  greedily  forward.  Dr.  Avery 
cleared  his  throat  with  tantalizing  coolness,  enjoying  the 
curiosity  which  he  had  purposely  stimulated,  and  then 
he  went  on  to  relate  his  visit  to  Berry  Shumway,  and  to 
give  in  her  own  simple,  graphic  words,  the  story  of  her 
meeting  with  Mr.  Whitmarsh. 

Nobody  interrupted  the  doctor.  He  did  not  glance  at 
the  ladies,  but  he  knew  the  very  point  at  which  his 
hearer's  memory  cleared  up,  by  the  look  and  smile  which 
flashed  into  the  face  of  Ben  Whitmarsh. 

"I  remember   it   now,"  he   said,   "though   I  never 


106  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

should  have  recalled  it  again.  I  can't  tell  what  freak 
possessed  me  at  the  moment.  I  did  it  as  much  for  fun 
as  anything,  I  fancy  ;  and  the  quaint  little  figure  seated 
there  by  the  roadside  and  counting  over  its  little  hoard 
of  money  gave  me  a  very  natural  desire  to  afford  the  child 
a  surprise  and  pleasure.  And  so  the  little  puss  has  been 
carrying  it  about  with  her  all  this  time !  One  doesn't 
often  get  so  much  gratitude  for  so  small  an  act." 

"  It  was  just  like  you  for  all  the  world,  Ben,  you 
dear  old  fellow  !  Nobody  but  you  would  have  thought 
of  doing  it  in  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

Her  husband,  coming  in  meanwhile,  had  heard  part 
of  the  story,  and  the  doctor  allowed  them  all  for  a  while 
to  make  their  comments ;  Miss  Carruthers  trying  to 
turn  it  all  into  a  joke,  —  she  always  did,  anything  which 
she  felt  deeply,  — thanking  Mr.  Whitmarsh  for  his 
present  to  the  factory-girl,  as  by  that  means  she,  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers,  had  been  a  witness  to  a  bit  of  pretty, 
natural  acting,  and  it  was  something  to  be  a  heroine 
even  in  a  foolish  little  factory-girl's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  hush,  Marjorie  Carruthers  !  You  don't  mean 
one  word  of  all  you  are  saying,"  put  in  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh. "  I  must  see  that  girl.  What  do  you  call  her, 
doctor?  How  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  her !  " 

The  iron  was  hot  again.  The  doctor  struck  :  ' '  You 
can,  my  dear  madam.  It  lies  in  your  power  to  do  a 
great  and  inestimable  benefit  to  Berry  Shumway." 

The  lady's  voice  was  not  the  only  one  which  cried 
out:  — 

"  Let  us  know  what  it  is  !  " 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBVRT.  107 

And  again  Dr.  A  very  told  Berry  Shum way's  story, 
mostly  in  her  own  words,  of  the  part  her  brother  had 
borne  in  the  riot  among  the  workmen,  and  of  his  pe- 
remptory dismissal ;  of  his  failure  to  get  employment 
elsewhere,  and  of  all  the  long  misery  which  had  fol- 
lowed. 

His  hearers  drank  in  the  story,  each  one  disposed  to 
credit  it,  and  full  of  sympathy  for  the  brother  and 
sister. 

"  0  John,  you  must  take  the  man  back  at  once. 
Poor  fellow!  how  he  has  suffered !"  broke  in  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh,  speaking  the  general  feeling. 

The  head  proprietor  of  the  Tuxbury  Mills  was  better 
acquainted  with  one  side  of  human  nature  than  his  wife, 
and  perhaps  he  had  still  a  lurking  doubt  whether  there 
might  not  be  a  different  version  of  the  English  work- 
man's part  in  the  riot,  — a  version  of  which  the  young, 
innocent  sister  could  be  of  course  presumed  to  have  no 
knowledge.  But  the  man  had  a  strong  sense  of  justice, 
and  in  the  present  case  was  disposed  to  be  merciful. 

"  It  was  difficult  to  discriminate  at  the  time,''  he  said. 
"  Examples  must  be  made,  though  the  orders  had  been 
to  punish  only  the  ringleaders.  In  this  case,  the  fellow 
might  have  been  as  innocent  as  he  professed  himself,  in 
which  event  nobody  could  regret  what  he  had  suffered 
more  sincerely  than  the  gentleman.  At  any  rate,  the 
workman  should  have  another  chance." 

"  Thank  you,  cousin  John,"  said  Marjorie  Carruthers, 
warmly,  giving  him  her  hand. 

"  I  think  the  girl's  account  of  her  brother's  share  in 


108  THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 

the  fray,  though  she  had  it,  of  course,  from  his  own  lips, 
was  substantially  true,"  said  Dr.  Avery.  "I  have 
made  inquiries,  and  find  that  he  bears  a  good  character 
among  his  fellow-workmen, —  is  honest  and  industrious." 

"  See  here,  John,"  exclaimed  his  brother,  "  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  have  a  hand  in  this  matter.  Let  the  first 
stroke  of  work  I  do,  since  I've  come  back  to  the  world, 
be  what  Sir  Philip  Sydney  calls  '  a  happy  action.'  " 

"  Go  on,  Ben,"  said  the  elder,  looking  at  the  younger 
with  the  indulgent  smile  which  did  not  belong  to  the 
business  face  of  John  Whitmarsh.  "What  will  you 
have?" 

"  Only  a  pen  and  paper,"  turning  to  the  table  near 
which  he  sat,  and  on  which  both  happened  to  lie. 

Everybody  watched  the  young  man  as  he  slowly 
lifted  his  arm,  for  any  sudden  movement  still  made  his 
wound  twinge  sharply.  In  the  breathless  silence  he 
scratched  a  few  words,  and  then  handed  them  to  his 
brother.  -#i  .1 

"  If  that  is  satisfactory,  read  it  aloud ;  "  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  elder  read :  — 

"MB.   HARDY  SHUMTVAY :  —  If  you  choose   to  return  to   your 
work,  your  old  situation  is  from  this  time  open  to  you. 
"  Your  friend, 


;  BENJAMIN  WHITMARSH. 


"I  should  like  to  be  there  to  see  that  little  girl's 
face  when  she  reads  that  letter,"  said  Dr.  Avery. 

"  Poor  child !  Do,  John,  have  it  go  this  very  night, 
so  that  a  moment  need  not  be  lost,"  pleaded  Eleanor. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  turned  and  flashed  on  Benjamin 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  109 

Whitinarsh  one  of  those  smiles  which  sometimes  came  to 
her  face  and  gave  it  a  marvellous  beauty,  —  a  beauty 
transcending  all  her  other  expressions ;  a  smile  of  which 
a  woman,  coarse  and  poor,  to  whom  Marjorie  once  did  a 
thoughtful,  gracious  act,  said  afterward,  "  It  was  as  if 
an  angel  had  smiled  upon  me  !  " 

"I  think,  Mr.  Whitmarsh,"  said  Marjorie  Carru- 
thers,  "that  must  be  one  of  the  'acts'  which  dear 
Philip  Sydney  called  'happy.'  " 


110  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"HARDY,"  said  Berry  Shumway,  bustling  in  from 
the  kitchen  to  the  front  room,  "that  man  has  been  here 
after  you  again,  to-day." 

Hardy  was  drying  his  feet  before  the  fire.  He  had 
had  a  long  tramp  through  the  mud  and  snow,  -5-  a  use- 
less one,  as  usual,  —  and  now  the  grateful  warmth  pen- 
etrated his  chilled  limbs,  and  his  wide  nostrils  snuffed 
in  greedily  the  savory  smells  from  the  kitchen,  where 
Berry  was  getting  ready  a  dinner,  that  seemed  sump- 
tuous to  the  man  and  girl,  who  had  actually  known  the 
cravings  of  hunger  a  good  many  times  during  these  last 
months. 

Berry  was  in  her  element  getting  that  supper,  bus- 
tling about  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  her  little, 
deft,  red  hands  as  busy  and  happy  as  possible,  taking 
naturally  to  the  sort  of  work  they  were  made  for ;  and 
she  hummed  fragments  of  old  tunes  as  she  bustled  back 
and  forth,  to  which  the  sound  of  the  chickens  broiling  at 
the  fire  made  a  pleasant  accompaniment,  and  she  thought 
how '  good  God  had  been  to  her,  and  how  many  kind 
folks  there  were  in  the  world,  after  all. 

For  the  doctor's  basket  had  arrived  the  night  before, 
and  Berry's  eyes  had  danced  until  it  seemed  they  must 
jump  out  of  her  little  brown  face  with  amazement  and 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBU11Y.  Ill 

delight  over  chickens  and  steaks,  and  all  the  tempting 
things  that  flanked  them. 

No  need  the  girl  should  cast  about  in  her  mind  for 
the  hand  which  reached  itself  out  to  their  utmost  need, 
so  silently  yet  so  generously.  "  It  was  that  dear  old 
Dr.  Avery,';  she  told  Hardy,  with  swimming  eyes, 
when  he  came  home  that  night,  and  she  opened  the 
basket  and  showed  him  its  contents,  and  then  went 
over  the  doctor's  visit. 

Hardy  seemed  moved,  as  Berry  had  not  seen  him  for 
weeks.  ,  She  had  not  known  what  to  make  of  him  of 
late.  His  gloom  and  sulkiness  had  added  largely  to  her 
worries,  and  more  than  once  the  glitter  in  his  eyes,  and 
the  loud,  hard  laugh,  and  the  fumes  of  his  breath  had 
sickened  her. 

But  to-night  Hardy  was  quite  sober.  Was  it  owing 
to  his  breakfast  of  smoking  steak  and  mealy  potatoes 
that  he  had  eaten  that  morning  ? 

"What  man?"  asked  Hardy  Shumway,  setting  his 
feet  a  little  nearer  the  blaze.  He  knew  perfectly  well, 
though  he  asked  the  question. 

"  Why,  that  old  Blatchley,  who  has  been  after  you 
so  many  times  of  late.  I  don't  see  what  he's  hanging 
round  here  for,  but  he  told  me  he  wanted  me  to  tell  you 
he's  goin'  away  from  these  parts,  —  had  a  call  off  on  a 
whaler." 

"You  don't  say  so  ?  Is  Joe  Blatchley  really  goin' 
off?"  asked  Hardy  Shumway,  his  whole  face  lighting 
up,  and  a  wonderful  change  in  his  manner. 

"  Yes,   that's    what    he    said,"  answered   Berry,  re- 


112  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

lieved  to  see  her  brother  took  the  news  in  that  way,  and 
venturing  to  say  now  what  had  been  on  her  tongue's 
end  a  good  many  times  before  :  "I  don't  like  that  man, 
Hardy,  I'm  glad  he's  going  off.  I  know  there's  some- 
thing bad  in  him  !  " 

"How  do  you  know,  Berry?"  turning  his  gaze  from 
her  face  to  the  blaze. 

"  I  had  a  good  look  at  his  eyes  while  he  talked. 
There  was  something  bold  and  bad  in  them,  which  never 
could  be  with  a  good  man.  Then  he  put  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder  —  ugh  !  it  made  me  shudder  all  over  !  " 

Hardy  started  up  now,  the  broad,  stolid  face  hot 
with  wrath  :  "  What  business  had  Joe  Blatchley  to  put 
his  hand  on  you?"  he  growled.  "If  I'd  been  here, 
I'd  knocked  his  old  carcass  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room." 

"I  shook  off  his  hand  as  though  it  was  slimy  pis'n, 
and  I  didn't  breathe  free  until  he'd  got  out  of  sight.  I 
al'ays  wondered  what  he  was  after  you  so  much  for. 
But  I'm  glad  he's  gone  off,  where  he'll  never  come  back 
again." 

"Yes,  I'm  glad  the  fellow's  gone,"  said  Hardy, 
drawing  a  low  breath  of  relief,  the  blaze  going  down  in 
his  eyes.  "  Did  he  leave  any  word  for  me  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  to  come  hard,  as  though  it  stuck 
in  his  throat  or  thoughts,  the  whole  manner  strangely  in 
contrast  with  his  recent  outbreak  of  rage.  There  was  a 
quick,  strong  life  down  somewhere,  in  the  slow,  heavy 
workman. 

"  He  said  there  was  things  he'd  like  to  talk  over  with 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBU11Y.  113 

you,  and  a  little  money  that  was  your  share  he'd  settle 
when  he  came  back.  I  didn't  s'pose  you  had  any  to 
lend  him.  Hardy,  but  that's  what  he  said  ;  "  a  good  deal 
of  surprise  in  her  tones,  of  curiosity  too. 

"No  matter  about  that.  'Twasn't  much,"  said 
Hardy,  with  a  sudden  twinge  through  all  his  heavy 
frame,  as  though  something  had  stung  him. 

Berry  saw  that  enough  had  been  said,  and  she  turned 
to  go  out  to  the  kitchen,  when  there  was  a  loud  knock  at 
the  door.  Hardy  rose  up  and  opened  it.  A  boy  stood 
there,  who  inquired  if  that  was  Hardy  Shumway's,  and 
then  put  a  letter  in  the  man's  hand  and  disappeared. 

Hardy  went  back  to  the  fire,  examined  curiously  the 
address  in  its  bold,  strange  characters,  then  opened  the 
letter  and  read. 

In  a  moment  Berry  fluttered  back.  ''Didn't  I  hear 
somebody  at  the  front  door  just  now?"  she  asked. 
Then  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  brother's  face,  with 
some  stunned,  horrified  look  in  it,  and  of  the  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"  Oh,  what  has  happened?  "  she  cried  out,  sharply. 

Hardy  held  up  the  letter  to  his  sister.  "  Read  that," 
he  said,  in  a  slow,  dazed  way,  like  that  of  a  man  who  has 
had  some  terrible  hurt  which  has  fairly  stunned  him. 

Berry  Shumway  leaned  breathlessly  over  her  brother's 
shoulder  and  read.  There  were  not  more  than  three 
lines.  It  was  the  letter  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had 
written  to  the  English  workman. 

A  cry,  sharp  with  wonder  and  delight,  shot  out  of 
Berry's  lips.  Then,  in  her  delirium  of  joy,  she  caught 


114  THE   MILLS   OF  TVXRURT. 

Hardy  about  the  neck  and  hugged  and  kissed  him  and 
cried  and  laughed  together  :  "  0  Hardy,  our  troubles  are 
all  over  now.  To  think  you  are  really  going  back  to 
work  again,  and  that  gentleman  has  done  it,  and  in  such 
a  way  too !  which  makes  it  better  than  ever,  signing 
himself,  'Your  friend,'  not  'Yours,  etc.,'  or  'Yours  re- 
spectfully/ but  'Your  friend,'  just  like  an  equal !  "  the 
happy  tears  thick  on  her  face  while  she  talked. 

Hardy  glanced  at  the  letter  with  something  in  his 
eyes  like  horror  or  fear.  Then  he  turned  and  looked 
at  his  sister  :  "  Berry,"  in  a  low,  choked  voice,  "  I  can't 
go  back  to  work  at  the  old  place  again.  If  anybody  else 
had  sent  for  me  —  "  checking  himself  there,  and  still 
looking  in  a  scared  way  at  the  letter  in  Berry's  hand. 

"Not  go  back  to  Tuxbury  Mills  to  work!  "  fairly 
shrieked  Berry.  "  Hardy  Shumway  !  " 

"  You  don't  know,  Berry.  'Taint  no  use  our  talkin'. 
To  think  young  Whitmarsh  has  sent  for  me  !  "  shudder- 
ing all  through  his  frame.  "I  must  get  work  away 
from  here." 

The  man  seemed  to  be  muttering  to  himself,  yet  there 
was  a  sort  of  goaded  look  in  his  eyes.  Berry  began  to 
fear  lest  the  long  misery  had  shaken  her  brother's  wits. 

"  0  Hardy,  would  you  go  and  leave  me  all  alone 
here?" 

The  brother  looked  at  his  sister,  and  some  tenderness 
struggled  up  through  all  the  blank  of  his  face :  "  I  aint 
much  good  to  you,  Berry,"  he  said.  "You'd  be  better 
off  without  me,  any  way." 

"It's  wicked   and  cruel  in  you  to  say  that,  Hardy 


THE   MILLS    OP   TUXBURY.  115 

Shumway.  And  you  know  I'm  all  you've  got,  and  it 
would  kill  me  dead  if  you  should  go  away  and  leave  me 
alone ;  but  you  won't  do  it,  you  dear  old  fellow ;  I  know 
you  won't,"  patting  his  shoulder  as  though  he  were  a 
baby.  "  You'll  just  stay  here  and  take  care  of  me,  and 
1  go  back  to  your  work,  and  we'll  have  the  old  happy 
times  again,  and  forget  all  about  our  troubles.  Don't 
you  know  I  said  there  was  a  good  God,  Hardy,  who 
would  help  us  out  of  the  worst,  some  time  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  you  said  that,  Berry  ;  "  but  there 
was  no  heartiness  in  his  voice,  only  a  kind  of  dead  level 
of  despair. 

"  And  now  he's  done  all  this  for  you  and  me,  and  you 
won't  take  the  good  he's  sent.  0  Hardy,  do  look  up ; 
don't  act  so  dreadful!  " 

There  was  something  wistful  in  his  eyes  that  touched 
the  girl  to  the  quick  when  her  brother  drew  her  round  to 
him:  "I  think,  Berry,  this  God  you  talk  about  must 
love  you  if  he  loves  anybody,  little  sister." 

It  was  only  once  in  a  great  while,  when  she  was  sick, 
or  some  grief  on  her  part  brought  out  his  tenderest 
mood,  that  Hardy  Shumway  called  her  by  that  name. 

"As  though  he  didn't  love  you  too,  Hardy!  He 
knows  how  kind  and  good  you  are." 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  Berry,"  a  groan  all  through 
the  words.  "  But  I  think  he  knows  that  I  care  a  good 
deal  about  you." 

' '  And  you  are  not  going  off,  Hardy,  —  you  will 
never  speak  of  that  dreadful  thing  again.  Father  and 


116  TUB   MILLS    OP  TUX.BVRY. 

mother  and  all  are  gone ;  only  you,  and  I  shall  be  left 
all  alone.  What  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

The  man  rose  up  suddenly  and  dragged  himself  up 
and  down  the  room.  She  could  hardly  see  his  face,  for 
it  was  growing  dark  now. 

"  If  any  other  man  in  the  world  had  written  that 
letter,  — any  other  man,  — I  might  go  back,"  she  heard 
Hardy  say ;  and  somehow  his  voice  sounded  far  off.  like 
that  of  a  man  crying  out  of  abysses  of  darkness,  or  from 
toils  in  which  he  had  been  caught  and  strangled. 

"  Was  her  brother's  brain  really  crazed?"  Berry 
thought  with  a  shudder.  But  she  went  up  to  him, 
taking  his  big  hand  in  both  her  warm  ones,  and  saying, 
' :  Promise  ine,  Hardy,  you  will  go  back  to  Tuxbury  to 
work,  or  it  will  break  my  heart." 

He  stood  still  a  minute  or  two,  while  she  waited, 
trembling.  At  last  he  said,  "God  knows,  Berry,  if 
I  go  back  there,  it  will  be  for  your  sake,  for  I'd  rather 
cut  my  right  hand  off  than  do  it." 

She  led  him  back  to  the  fire,  and  seated  him  in  his 
chair,  as  though  the  strong,  healthy  man  were  a  help- 
less child,  and  then  she  set  to  work  finishing  the  meal,  a 
little  sobered  by  her  brother's  manner,  and  yet  very 
happy  for  all  that.  When  once  Hardy  had  really  got 
back  to  work,  things  would  be  all  right,  she  reasoned  to 
herself.  The  old  life  and  labor  would  once  more  steady 
his  brain,  that  had  been  almost  shattered  by  their  long 
misery. 

Once  in  a  while,  when  she  brushed  past  him,  he 
looked  at  her  in  a  kind  of  helpless,  wistful  way,  as 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  117 

though  he  clung  to  her  for  something  she  alone  of  all 
the  world  could  give  him,  and  once  or  twice  she  heard 
him  mutter.  "  There's  judgments !  There's  judg- 
ments !  " 

But  Berry  Shumway  paid  no  attention  to  talk  of  that 
sort ;  she  only  got  her  supper  ready  a  little  faster.  She 
was  a  helpful,  sensible  little  soul,  and  had  great  faith  in 
the  efficacy  of  a  good,  warm  meal  anfl  a  few  cheery 
words  to  comfort  hearts  and  brains  strained  and  un- 
steady with  long  griefs. 

That  was  all  that  ailed  Hardy,  she  reasoned,  and  she 
brought  him  at  last  to  the  smoking  board,  and  waited  on 
him  with  a  sort  of  eager,  motherly  air,  that  was  pretty 
and  touching  to  see,  and  chirupped  like  a  bird  about  all 
the  good  things  that  had  happened;  and  sometimes  a 
smile  would  come  out  and  rest  on  Hardy's  face  for  a 
moment,  but  it  was  sure  to  vanish  whenever  Berry 
mentioned,  as  she  was  doing  all  the  time,  with  passion- 
ate gratitude  and  with  all  the  overflowing  warmth  and 
admiration  of  her  years  and  nature,  the  name  of  Benja- 
min Whitmarsh. 

The  next  morning  Berry  and  her  brother  started  off 
together  for  the  Furnace.  His  working  hours  fell  ear- 
lier than  hers,  but  Berry  had  settled  it  in  her  mind  that 
she  would  accompany  Hardy  on  this  first  morning.  Ex- 
citement had  kept  her  awake  the  night  before ;  and  al- 
though it  had  been,  on  the  whole,  of  the  happiest  sort, 
she  had  gone  over  with  her  brother's  looks  and  words 
that  evening  with  real  anxiety,  still  attributing  the 


118  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

whole  to  the  long  strain  of  body  and  soul  which  he  had 
undergone. 

Hardy  was  quiet  enough  next  morning;  but  then 
there  was  something  in  his  face  that  did  not  just  satisfy 
his  sister. 

He  brightened  up,  however,  when  she  expressed  her 
intention  of  walking  over  with  him,  and  they  started  off 
together.  It  was  a  wonderfully  pleasant  morning  in 
Tuxbury,  the  early  light  quivering  among  the  naked 
branches,  and  cheering  up  the  bare,  frozen  earth,  off 
which  the  late  rain-storms  had  stripped  the  winter 
snows. 

Berry  felt  in  her  very  blood  that  the  spring  was 
coming,  and  her  own  heart  was  like  a  water-course 
among  the  hills,  flowing  down  with  singing  and  laugh- 
ter to  meet  the  river. 

She  tripped  by  her  brother's  side,  chattering  all  the 
time,  with  a  glance  thrown  out  to  pick  up  anything 
which  was  striking  or  pleasant  in  their  way. 

As  they  drew  near  Piebald  Mountain,  where  the 
dreadful  event  had  occurred  which  had  shaken  the  whole 
country  around  with  horror,  Berry  looked  up  suddenly 
in  her  brother's  face,  and  some  look  of  dumb,  hunted 
misery  there  made  her  heart  fairly  stand  still  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Don't  go  that  way,"  he  spoke,  in  a  low,  rapid 
voice.  "  The  other  is  longer,  but  we  can  walk  faster." 

Berry  turned  off  without  a  word  into  the  road  which 
led  round  by  the  meadows,  and  which  was  a  good  half 
mile  longer  than  the  short  cut  by  the  mountain.  For 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  119 

herself,  she  had  been  that  way  a  good  many  times,  for 
there  was  some  downright  warmth  and  heartiness  about 
the  girl  to  which  morbid  superstitions  could  not  easily 
cling,  and  she  thought  oftener  of  her  meeting  with 
young  Whitmarsh  than  she  did  of  the  terrible  scene 
which  had  transpired  so  near  the  spot  where  she  first  be- 
held him. 

But  she  was  ready  in  his  present  mood  to  humor  her 
brother's  whims  and  fancies  to  any  extent,  although 
Berry  herself  was  no  angel,  and  had  at  times  her  little, 
peremptory  tempers  arid  notions,  which  latter  were  suffi- 
ciently stubborn ;  but  there  was  one  thing  you  could  al- 
ways be  sure  of,  and  that  was  the  warm,  impulsive 
heart,  the  native  honesty  and  truthfulness  of  Berry 
Shumway. 

At  last  they  reached  the  great  Mills.  Berry  walked 
with  her  brother  to  the  door,  watching  him  with  a  little 
unacknowledged  fear.  He  stopped  there :  a  kind  of  chill 
seemed  to  go  all  over  the  burly  figure. 

Berry  had  a  vague  instinct  through  all  their  walk 
that  morning,  that  her  brother  was  acting  a  part, 
schooling  himself  to  enter  into  her  mood,  and  into  the 
little  commonplace  interests  and  talk  with  which  she 
had  tried  to  beguile  the  way. 

Now  the  wistful,  appealing  look  she  remembered  last 
night  came  into  Hardy's  eyes,  —  beyond  that  some  un- 
utterable anguish. 

He  groaned  out  betwixt  his  set  jaws,  "  As  I'm  a  liv- 
in'  man,  all  the  world  couldn't  have  dragged  me  here, 


120  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBUKY. 

Berry,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  sake,  —  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  your  sake  !  " 

Just  then  a  gang  of  the  workmen  came  along,  so 
there  was  no  time  for  any  more  words. 

But  Berry  reached  up  her  face  to  her  brother  and 
kissed  him ;  and  I  think  that  child's  innocent,  loving 
kiss  strengthened  and  steadied  the  man,  so  that  he 
went  in,  without  another  word,  to  his,  work. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  121 


CHAPTER  X. 

As  the  spring  advanced,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  began 
to  get  about  the  house  once  more  with  slow,  groping 
steps  and  short  breaths,  at  first,  much  like  a  baby's  or  an 
old  man's,  it  is  true,  but  with  some  added  strength  and 
steadiness  each  time ;  and  it  was  a  grand  epoch  in  the 
household,  you  may  be  certain,  when  the  man  took  his 
first  drive  with  his  brother,  going  a  whole  mile  and  back 
in  the  noon  of  a  soft  spring  day,  the  air  all  tremulous 
with  sweet  south  winds,  like  the  heart  of  a  young  girl 
a-quiver  with  its  first  dream  of  love,  and  among  the 
willow  branches  a  faint  green,  much  like  a  thin,  creep- 
ing mist;  but  it  was  in  reality  the  outer  scroll  of  the 
great  emblazoned  banner  of  the  spring,  so  soon  to  be 
flaunting  over  every  bare  hill-top  and  river-side  and 
valley. 

Bowling  along  in  the  easy  carryall,  his  head  propped 
among  the  cushions,  Ben  Whitmarsh  took  note  of  all 
these  things,  fancying  he  felt  a  little  as  Dante  must 
when  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  stars  shining  over  him 
after  that  dreadful  passage  through  Inferno.  The  world 
had  always  looked  pleasant  in  the  eyes  of  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh.  Why  shouldn't  it  to  a  young  man  with 
sturdy  health,  every  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins  clear 
and  pure,  seeming  to  have  its  own  live  sparkle  like 
champagne ;  a  young  man  without  a  care,  with  money 


122  THE  MILLS  OF  TVXBUJtT. 

enough,  with  a  keen  relish  of  that  best  side  of  enjoyment 
which  the  world  has  to  offer,  — the  side  of  art,  of  intel- 
lectual culture,  and  of  travel;  a  young  man,  too,  who 
had  no  foul  memories  to  haunt  his  thought  and  imagina- 
tion like  flocks  of  unclean  birds  ?  What  wonder  that  the 
world  had  looked  pleasant  in  the  eyes  of  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh,  for  what  was  there  yet  to  give  it  a  shadow  ? 

Yet  his  ideal  hero,  Philip  Sidney,  had  all  this,  and  he 
had  said,  "  The  only  certainly  happy  action  of  a  man's 
life  is  doing  good." 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  thought  of  that  sometimes 
since  Dr.  Avery  had  quoted  it ;  but  then  he  had  thought 
of  a  good  many  things  in  a  new  way  during  his  illness. 

The  world  had  never  looked  so  dear,  so  pleasant,  to 
him  as  it  did  on  this  morning.  She  seemed  to  welcome 
him  back  from  the  dead  with  a  smile  of  tender  exulta- 
tion on  her  face,  like  a  mother's.  It  brought  the  tears 
into  his  eyes  through  all  the  strong,  solemn  joy  of  the 
moment.  Then  he  thought  how  this  pleasant  world 
would  never  have  had  anything  better  to  offer  him  than 
a  dark  underground  bed  a  few  feet  wide  in  her  ample 
bosom,  if  it  had  not  been  for  one  woman,  —  one  woman 
who  had  come  to  the  gate  when  he  drove  off  and  stood 
among  the  others  with  her  beautiful  face  full  of  pleased, 
eager  solicitude  which  softened  all  its  pride ;  in  fact,  the 
whole  household  assembled  as  to  a  kind  of  jubilee.  They 
were  on  the  veranda  awaiting  Ben  Whitmarsh  when  he 
returned  and  got  into  the  house  with  the  help  of  his 
brother's  arm.  pretty  thoroughly  worn  out  by  his  exer- 
tion, but  none  the  worse  for  it. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  123 

With  his  recovery,  of  course  the  young  man's  spirits 
began  to  regain  their  old,  high-tide  mark,  although  they 
ebbed  away  into  graver  moods  oftener  than  before.  Still, 
he  protested  that  he  had  made  the  discovery  that  semi- 
invalidism  was  the  happiest  condition  of  human  life.  You 
could  in  that  condition  lay  with  absolute  impunity  hands 
and  feet  of  a  whole  household  under  perpetual  tribute ; 
you  could  be  the  most  arrogant  and  exacting  of  tyrants ; 
you  could  be  watched  and  cosseted  and  coaxed  and  cud- 
dled enough  to  ruin  the  temper  and  stomachs  of  an  army 
of  healthy  babies.  As  for  him,  he  frankly  owned  he 
was  undone.  John  and  Eleanor  and  Miss  Carruthers, 
with  their  tending  and  trotting,  had  quite  taken  the  man- 
liness out  of  him.  What  was  left  was  poor,  limp,  washed- 
out  material,  just  good  for  nothing  but  to  be  bundled 
up  and  set  down  in  the  warmest  corner,  to  be  waited  on 
the  rest  of  his  life. 

Everybody  laughed  at  talk  like  this.  "  Never  mind, 
Mr.  Whitmarsh,"  Miss  Carruthers,  would  say,  "when 
we  get  you  quite  sound  again,  you  shall  have  a  tough 
seasoning  to  pay  for  all  this  petting.  The  old  Spartan 
discipline  shall  be  nothing  to  it." 

Miss  Carruthers  had  changed  wonderfully  since  that 
night  when  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  been  brought  home 
to  her  for  dead.  How  soft  and  gentle  and  altogether 
charming  she  was  these  days,  I  cannot  tell.  The  old 
pride  and  tempers  and  moods  seemed  all  gone,  or  at  least 
held  in  the  background. 

From  the  first,  young  Whitmarsh  had  admired  her 
excessively.  How  could  he  help  it  ?  Such  a  woman  as 


124  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

she  !  —  her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  rare  gifts  of  mind, 
acted  like  a  fine  stimulant  on  all  his  powers.  She  kept 
him  on  his  mettle,  too,  with  her  haughty  tempers  and  the 
swift  dazzle  of  her  wit.  But  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  was 
mot  in  love  with  Marjorie  Carruthers.  He  was  a  man 
well  among  his  thirties,  and  he  had  had  his  fancies,  but 
he  had  outgrown  the  moonstruck,  rhyming,  serenading 
period,  and  all  that  nonsense.  Every  year  he  thought 
less  about  matrimony,  although  he  still  had  his  beau- 
ideal  of  a  woman  after  his  own  heart,  —  some  sweet, 
blushing,  graceful  little  creature,  all  dimples  and  devotion  ; 
but  he  had  never  come  across  her  yet,  or,  if  he  had,  she  had 
never  laid  firm  enough  hold  on  his  thought  and  heart  to 
have  him  place  his  happiness  in  her  dainty  little  hands. 

Sometimes  during  the  first  weeks  of  his  visit  at  Tux- 
bury,  the  young  man  would  say  to  his  sister-in-law, 
"  That  cousin  of  yours  is  a  splendid  creature,  Eleanor; 
but,  saints  defend  us  !  what  a  wife  she'd  make  !  Where 
do  you  suppose  the  benedict  is  to  be  found  with  coolness 
and  courage  to  tame  such  a  Beatrice  ?  Why,  she'd  look 
an  ordinary  man  into  nonentity  with  one  scornful  blaze 
of  those  great,  beautiful  eyes  of  hers  !  " 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  half  amused,  half  dismayed,  to 
have  her  brother-in-law  go  on  at  this  rate.  She  loved 
Ben,  she  adored  Marjorie  ;  and  if  there  was  anything  in 
the  world  she  had  set  her  heart  on,  it  was  to  have  these 
two  fall  in  love  with  each  other. 

But  the  most  skilful  match-maker  would  have  found 
Marjorie  Carruthers  a  most  difficult  card  to  play. 

It  was  probable  that  Eleanor  Whitmarsh  might  say  to 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  125 

her  cousin  with  impunity  what  no  other  human  being 
could,  but  when  it  came  to  seriously  facing  her  with  a 
matrimonial  suggestion,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  not  the 
courage  to  do  it. 

But  she  always  stood  strongly  on  the  defensive  when 
her  cousin  was  the  subject  of  conversation.  "  Marjorie 
is  a  noble  creature,  Ben ;  even  her  faults  are  generous 
and  open  like  herself,  while  all  that  is  sweet  and  fine 
and  true  in  her  —  Well,  you  do  not  know  her  as  I 
do." 

"Now,  Eleanor,  don't  misapprehend  me.  A  fellow 
talks  at  random,  you  know,  when  he  gets  started ;  but 
with  regard  to  Miss  Carruthers'  character  we  should  not 
disagree  at  bottom.  There  is  something  innately  grand 
and  noble  in  her.  Whatever  her  faults  are  of  pride  and 
mood,  there  is  nothing  mean  or  petty  or  commonplace 
about  her,  — a  royal  woman,  Eleanor." 

Such  praise  as  this  half  appeased  Mrs.  Whitmarsh, 
whose  dearest  wishes  again  took  courage ;  for  Ben,  when 
he  talked  in  that  way,  never  said  more  than  he  meant ; 
and  yet  when  she  came  to  remember  that  if  Ben  was 
eager  to  woo,  there  was  Marjorie  to  be  won,  her  heart 
failed  her,  her  pretty,  rose-colored  visions  fading  away 
like  clouds  at  sunrise. 

The  two  certainly  liked  each  other,  enjoyed  their  talks 
and  jests  and  their  reading  and  arguments.  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh was  secure  so  far,  but  no  farther. 

After  the  dreadful  tragedy  of  one  night  at  Tuxbury 
the  man  and  woman  met  on  different  ground.  Some 
new  feeling  was  brought  out  betwixt  them.  Benjamin 


126  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

Whitmarsh  could  never  look  at  Marjorie  Carruthers  with- 
out an  ever-present  consciousness  that  but  for  her  he  had 
been  cut  down  out  of  the  living  in  the  pride  and  strength 
of  his  early  manhood.  Whatever  she  might  be,  this 
woman,  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  must  stand  apart,  sacred 
and  reverenced  in  his  thought  above  all  women,  —  in 
some  sense  even  above  the  woman  of  his  loving. 

And  since  that  night  Miss  Carruthers  could  not  look 
on  the  man  whose  life  she  had  preserved  as  she  could 
upon  other  men.  For  him  she  had  looked  Death  in  the 
face,  wrestled  with  this  latter  when  all  other  hearts  and 
hands  had  fallen  back  fainting  and  affrighted. 

The  experience  of  that  night  had  exalted  and  softened 
the  girl.  Its  memory  filled  her  heart  now  with  a  kind 
of  reverent  gratitude,  and  although  neither  the  man  nor 
the  woman  ever  alluded  to  what  was  past,  there  was  an 
under-consciousness  with  both  which  betrayed  itself  in 
the  manner  of  each  toward  the  other. 

They  had  their  talk  and  jests  and  disputes  as  usual, 
disagreeing  in  their  opinions  of  books,  pictures,  and  of 
great  historical  and  contemporary  characters,  —  for  these 
two  young  people's  talk  swept  the  wide  circle  of  human 
life  and  thought,  and,  to  quote  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  again, 
"  It  was  about  as  hard  to  keep  up  with  them  as  it  was  to 
read  '  Paradise  Lost '  without  a  pile  of  classical  diction- 
aries and  enyclopsedias  at  hand,"  — but,  for  all  that,  she 
was  never  on  nettles  now,  as  was  formerly  the  case,  lest 
the  disputes  should  run  high,  and  one  of  these  two  should 
give  mortal  offence  to  the  other. 

They  were  more  than  acquaintances  —  friends  even  — 


TELE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  127 

to  each  other  now ;  as  far  as  possible  from  lovers  perhaps ; 
still  between  them  was  the  mighty  tie  of  a  life  rescued. 

Marjorie  kept  full  as  narrow  a  watch  on  Ben  Whit- 
marsh's  imprudences  as  Eleanor  did,  and  took  him  to 
task  for  his  recklessness  during  his  convalescence,  and 
the  fellow  made  wry  faces  and  witty  jests,  and  on  the 
whole  was  obedient. 

Those  were  smooth,  happy  days  at  Tuxbury.  Poor 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  with  her  rosy  little  programme  all 
nicely  arranged,  fluttered  betwixt  her  baby  and  the  young 
people  in  a  tremulous  hope:  "After  all  that  had  hap- 
pened, Fate  couldn't  be  so  cruel  as  to  keep  these  two 
apart.  Ben  and  Marjorie  must  fall  in  love  with  each 
other,  or  what  a  romance  would  be  spoiled  !  " 

Dr  Avery  was  in  the  midst  of  the  hilarious  group 
which  greeted  the  young  man  on  his  return  from  his 
first  ride. 

"  Ah.  my  young  friend,"  grasping  his  patient's  hand 
at  the  door,  -'you've  transcended  orders  this  time." 

"I  instigated  the  mutiny,  doctor,  and  you  must  visit 
the  punishment  on  my  head.  It's  the  ringleaders  who 
suffer  in  a  revolt,"  answered  John  Whitmarsh,  taking 
off  his  hat  and  bowing  to  the  doctor  with  the  air  of  a 
culprit  awaiting  his  sentence.  The  manner  in  which  his 
brother  had  borne  the  drive  had  put  the  elder  in  excel- 
lent spirits. 

But,  in  the  course  of  the  mock  examination  which 
followed,  it  came  out  that  the  doctor  had  driven  around 
with  the  express  purpose  of  giving  his  patient  an  airing 
in  his  chaise. 


128  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBUJRY. 

"He  has  stood  it  so  well  this  time,"  said  John  Whit- 
marsh,  gazing  at  his  brother,  who  sat,  looking  pale  but 
animated  enough,  in  the  easy-chair  where  the  two  ladies 
had  seen  that  he  was  at  once  bestowed,  "  that  I  think  in 
a  week  or  two  I  shall  carry  him  over  to  the  Works  to 
display  him  to  the  men  there.  What  a  hero  he  will  be 
among  them  all !  " 

"  Poor  souls  !  out  of  what  stuff  they'll  make  him  ! " 
laughed  the  younger  brother. 

"  When  that  time  comes,  we  shall  all  go,  — you  and 
I,  Marjorie ;  and  what  a  heroine  you  will  be  too  !  " 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  wonderfully  on  her  guard  of 
late,  —  one  had  to  be  with  that  sensitive,  high-strung 
Marjorie.  The  clause  slipped  out  before  she  was  aware. 
She  saw  her  mistake  in  a  moment. 

"  Excuse  me,  Eleanor."  with  a  little  of  the  old  hau- 
teur in  her  tones,  "  but  if  the  stocks  had  not  gone  out 
of  fashion  long  ago,  I  would  set  myself  there  when  I 
desired  to  be  stared  at.'' 

' '  Of  course,  nobody  would  ever  suspect  you  of  any 
desire  of  that  sort,  Marjorie  dear ;  only  it  struck  me  that 
we  would  make  a  nice  little  family  group,  and  you  would 
not  mind  the  staring.  '  A  cat  may  look  upon  a  king.'  " 

"  Yes,  but  what  if  the  king  has  not  a  kingly  soul, 
and  resents  the  staring  ?  ' '  Then  the  talk  she  had 
had  with  the  doctor,  on  the  day  they  drove  out 
together,  flashed  across  her.  She  glanced  toward  him 
and  met  the  kindly  eyes  with  the  shrewd  twinkle  in 
them.  "Ah,  Doctor  Avery,  "  she  cried,  with  one  of 


THE  M7LLS   OF  TUXBURY.  129 

those  changes  of  mood  which  came  suddenly  upon  her  in 
such  contrast  with  all  her  imperiousness,  and  which  was 
as  natural  to  Miss  Carruthers  as  its  native  fragrance  to 
a  rose,  "  I  proved  that  to  you  one  day." 

"  Proved  what,  my  child?  " 

"  That  I  had  not  a  kingly  or  queenly  soul." 

"  Miss  Carruthers,  nobody  shall  ever  say  that  but 
yourself  where  I  am,"  answered  a  voice  near  where  she 
stood. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  and 
a  smile  came  into  her  face  and  filled  it  with  marvellous 
sweetness.  She  had  other  smiles,  —  haughty  and  defi- 
ant, yet  bright  as  the  glitter  of  sunshine  on  ice :  "Ah, 
you  think  so,  but  it  is  not  true,"  some  sadness  clinging 
all  through  the  little  cluster  of  monosyllables. 

"A  queenly  soul,"  repeated  the  convalescent,  slowly. 
"  I  had  not  been  here  to  say  it  now,  Miss  Marjorie,  if 
you  had  not  proved  it  to  me  once  —  ONCE  !  " 

He  had  hardly  alluded  to  that  night  since  their  first 
interview  by  his  bedside. 

"But  a  single  act,  though  it  were  a  great  heroism, 
would  hardly  prove  one's  title  good  to  that  name ;  never- 
theless, it  is  pleasant.  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Whitmarsh," 
the  smile  of  touched  sweetness  and  humility  coming  out 
on  her  face  as  no  flattery  could  have  brought  it.  Mar- 
jorie was  so  used  to  that,  that  she  scorned  it  mostly. 

Seeing  that  smile,  there  somehow  rose  beside  it  the 
face  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh's  ideal  woman,  all  the  pink 
and  dimples  and  prettiness,  insipid  and  inane  as  a  doll's 


130  THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY. 

beside  the  fine,  delicate  outlines  of  this  other  woman's 
face. 

"  Pish  !  "  muttered  Ben  Whitmarsh  to  himself,  start- 
ing a  little. 

"  Do  you  feel  uncomfortable,  Ben?"  asked  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh,  who  saw  the  movement. 

"No,  Eleanor;  don't  bother  yourself.  If  you  must 
know  the  truth,  it  happened  to  strike  me  then  what  an 
asinine  fool  I'd  been  making  of  myself  all  my  days." 

"I've  been  often  struck  of  a  sudden  with  just  that 
conviction  about  myself!  "  said  Dr.  Avery,  lifting  his 
heavy  brows. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  Ben,  you  are  as  incomprehensi- 
ble as  —  as  Marjorie  here."  It  was  evident  that  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh  thought  the  emphasis  of  her  comparison 
could  no  farther  go. 

Everybody  laughed,  and,  whether  it  conveyed  a  compli- 
ment to  her  or  not,  Miss  Carruthers  seemed  to  enjoy  her 
cousin's  remark  :  "  Poor  Eleanor  !  "  looking  with  a  kind 
of  amused  tenderness  at  the  lady,  "  I  know  I  must  be  a 
perpetual  thorn  in  your  side." 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXDURT.  131 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  projected  visit  to  the  Mills,  or  more  properly  to 
the  smelting-works,  did  not  transpire  for  several  weeks, 
during  which  time  Ben  Whitmarsh  made  rapid  progress 
on  the  road  to  health,  going  out  every  pleasant  day, 
taking  longer  drives  each  time,  and  throwing  off  more 
and  more  the  rules  and  habits  of  the  convalescent 
period. 

John  Whitmarsh  was  at  this  juncture  in  an  unusually 
busy  phase.  He  was  opening  a  road  betwixt  the  cotton- 
mills  and  his  great  iron  furnace  works,  and  the  tunnelling 
of  the  steep  mountain  which  separated  the  two  valleys, 
in  one  of  which  stood  the  factories,  in  the  other  the  vast 
smelting-works,  was  no  small  enterprise  for  private 
achievement,  and,  even  under  the  management  of  skilled 
engineers  and  workmen,  demanded  the  general  super- 
vision of  the  proprietor. 

The  opening  of  the  road,  however,  would  not  only 
facilitate  communication  between  all  the  mills,  —  fur- 
naces and  factories  being  both  included  in  this  designa- 
tion in  the  vernacular  of  Tuxbury,  —  but  would  largely 
diminish  the  distance  to  the  ore-beds,  which  lay  a  mile 
to  the  north  of  the  settlement,  the  drivers  and  draught 
horses,  with  their  heavy  wagons  laden  with  the  ore, 
making  a  constant  procession  from  the  beds  to  the  Mills, 


132  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY. 

the  mountain  now  being  tunnelled  lying  right  in  their 
path  and  compelling  a  circuit  of  nearly  a  mile  of  very 
hilly  road. 

When  the  time  came  for  the  family  visit  to  the  Mills, 
Whitmarsh  the  elder  was  suddenly  summoned  to  the 
mountain  to  decide  some  doubtful  question  of  engineer- 
ing. Dr.  Avery  was,  however,  on  hand,  as  he  had  been 
invited  to  join  the  party,  and  the  ladies  were  in  waiting. 
The  gentleman  insisted  the  expedition  should  not  be  de- 
ferred on  account  of  his  absence.  "The  doctor  and  his 
brother  made  a  force  strong  enough  to  escort  the  ladies 
around  the  works." 

Miss  Carruthers  had  not  again  demurred  to  this  visit 
to  the  Mills.  If  she  had  any  secret  repugnance  to  being 
stared  at,  she  kept  it  to  herself.  Indeed,  Marjorie  had 
been  so  gracious  and  acquiescent  all  these  weeks,  and 
everything  had  gone  on  so  smoothly  betwixt  her  and  Ben 
Whitmarsh,  that  the  head  of  his  sister-in-law  was  busier 
than  ever  with  her  rose-colored  visions  of  weddings  and 
bridal  favors  and  pretty  nonsense  of  that  sort. 

They  were  a  merry  little  party  going  over  the  works 
that  afternoon.  Squads  of  brawny-chested,  heavy -framed, 
grimy-faced  workmen  followed  everywhere,  with  curious, 
half-amused,  half-awed  glances,  the  gentleman  who  had 
been  so  nearly  murdered,  and  the  beautiful  lady  who  had 
brought  him  back  almost  from  the  dead.  Whatever 
human  tenderness  lay  deep  in  the  souls  of  those  coarse, 
grimy  men  had  been  stirred  by  the  story  they  had 
heard. 

The  staring,  though  she  was  conscious  enough  of  it,  and 


THE  MILLS   OF   TDXBURY.  133 

though  Eleanor  was  on  thorns  for  her  sake,  did  not  affect 
Marjorie.  There  was  some  element  in  it  this  time  which 
lifted  the  staring  out  of  simple  rudeness,  —  some  half- 
reverent,  half-grateful  feeling,  which  touched  the  girl. 

The  little  party  moved  around,  in  the  vast  dark  spaces 
of  the  buildings,  among  the  different  gangs  of  sooty  work- 
men, watching  these  tend  the  fires  and  trundle  the  heavy 
wheelbarrows  of  ore  and  weigh  the  vast  masses  and 
swing  up  the  elevators  and  heap  the  cars,  —  a  noisy,  deaf- 
ening hive,  —  and  they  quoted  bits  of  the  classics  and 
fiery  lines  of  Dante,  at  least  young  Whitmarsh  and  Miss 
Carruthers  did,  and  the  latter's  cousin  shrugged  her 
pretty  shoulders  sometimes  and  said,  "  0  doctor,  these 
people  have  mounted  their  Pegasus,  and  it's  dreadfully 
hard  for  my  poor  little  brains  to  keep  pace  with  them." 

At  last  they  mounted  into  a  kind  of  upper  gallery 
which  commanded  a  wide  view  of  the  busy  groups  be- 
neath. There  was  a  detachment  of  workmen  up  here 
also ;  two  long  rows,  which  reminded  them  of  files  of 
soldiery,  and  there  was  the  same  half-curious,  half- 
touched  stare  on  the  dull  sooty  faces,  as  the  party  swept 
by,  seeming,  in  their  grace  and  daintiness,  almost  like 
beings  from  another  sphere. 

One  of  the  foremen  accompanied  the  strangers.  A 
sudden  thought  struck  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  and  she  turned 
to  the  officer,  saying,  "Among  your  hands  there  is 
one  named  Hardy  Shumway ;  I  have  a  curiosity  to  see 
him." 

"  That's  the  man,  ma'am,"  pointing  to  one  of  the  file 
so  near  where  they  stood  that  the  man  must  have  heard 


134  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 

his  name,  for  he  turned  suddenly  and   confronted  the 
others. 

A  young  man  in  blue  overalls,  a  massive,  rough-hewn 
fellow,  with  broad  face  and  heavy  jaws,  which  gave  a 
certain  character  of  obstinacy  to  the  whole  expression ; 
yet  through  the  coarseness  and  homeliness  there  was 
nothing  repugnant.  Ben  Whitmarsh  stepped  right  for- 
ward with  a  peculiar  warmth  of  feeling  toward  this  man, 
as  the  solitary  one  to  whom  he  had  done  an  especial 
favor.  He  put  out  his  hand:  "I  am  glad  to  see  you 
here,  my  friend."  If  you  knew  the  man,  and  the  frank, 
gracious  way  in  which  Ben  Whitmarsh,  of  all  men,  could 
say  and  do  this  thing  ! 

Something  came  into  the  workman's  eyes  —  was  it 
pain  or  terror  ?  —  when  he  heard  that  voice.  It  seemed 
as  though,  in  the  dull  light  an  awful  pallor  overspread 
his  face,  and  he  stood  still,  staring  at  young  Whitmarsh 
without  saying  one  word ;  some  hunted  anguish  in  his 
eyes,  like  a  wild  animal's  standing  at  bay ;  and  though 
he  remained  quite  still,  a  spasm  went  all  over  the 
massive  limbs.  The  man's  mouth  worked  too,  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  speak ;  he  put  his  great  hand 
in  the  long,  delicate  fingers  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh, 
but  the  slender  one  seemed  to  hold  more  strength  and 
vitality  just  now  than  its  brawny  neighbor. 

The  young  man  was  quite  taken  by  surprise  at  this 
sudden  evidence  of  feeling  on  the  workman's  part.  He  sup- 
posed that  Shumway  was  overcome,  remembering  the 
letter  and  all  he  had  gone  through  before  it  came.  He 
felt  more  kindly  than  ever  toward  the  young  workman. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY.  135 

But  at  that  moment  Miss  Carruthers  drew  up  to 
them.  She.  too,  had  seen  the  look  in  the  face  of  the 
mill-hand,  and  it  had  touched  her. 

"  This  is  Berry's  brother,  I  believe,  and  therefore  I 
must  shake  hands  with  you  also,  Mr.  Shumway,"  she 
said. 

He  turned  and  looked  on  the  smiling,  beautiful  face 
of  the  woman  by  his  side,  —  a  face  that  shone  in  the  eyes 
of  the  dull  workman  sweet  and  gracious  as  a  queen's  or 
an  angel's.  A  change  came  all  over  his,  like  the  thrill 
of  sudden  sunshine.  His  eyes  warmed  and  brightened 
out  of  their  cold  horror  into  something  of  warmth  and 
gratitude  and  worship.  He  took  the  dainty  hand  a 
moment,  and  looked  at  it  with  a  curious  wistfulness  as  it 
lay  in  his  brawny  fingers,  and  then  he  spoke:  "0 
ma'am,  if  Berry  was  here,  she  would  know  how  to  thank 
him  ;  I  can't." 

"  There  is  no  need,  my  good  fellow,"  answered  Whit- 
marsh,  and  then  Hardy  Shumway  turned  and  glanced  at 
him  fearfully  again  ;  and  so  for  a  moment  they  stood 
still,  confronting  each  other,  —  Benjamin  Whitmarsh 
and  Hardy  Shumway,  —  the  former  thin  and  pale  yet, 
but  with  that  indescribable  air  of  culture  and  grace 
which  nobody  could  mistake ;  the  latter,  the  big-framed, 
squarely  built  workman,  each  seeming  to  emphasize  the 
contrasts  of  the  other  to  everybody  who  had  an  eye  for 
picturesque  effects  of  that  sort. 

Dr.  Avery  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  their  turn  now. 
each  being  presented  to  young  Shumway  by  Ben ;  and 
the  lady  smiled  kindly  on  him,  and  the  old  doctor  said  a 


136  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

few  pleasant  words,  to  which  Hardy  answered  with  a 
gleam  of  honest  feeling  in  his  eyes  and  smile :  "  I'm 
always  hearin'  about  you  from  Berry,  sir." 

"  I  set  a  very  high  value  on  Berry's  good  opinion," 
answered  the  doctor.  "  She  is  a  shrewd  little  girl,  and 
her  heart  is  as  warm  and  true  as  her  wits  are  bright/' 

You  saw  in  a  moment  those  words  had  gone  to  the 
quick  ;  a  red  glow  spread  all  over  the  man's  face,  and  a 
smile,  bright  and  pleased  as  a  girl's,  loosened  the  heavy 
jaws:  "  She'll  be  happy  when  she  comes  to  hear  that. 
Berry  is  a  good  girl,  sir." 

They  moved  on  in  a  moment,  bowing  their  good- 
bys. 

"  How  terribly  scared  he  did  seem  when  the  fellow 
first  looked  at  Ben!  Did  you  observe  it,  doctor?" 
chirruped  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

"Yes,  it  struck  me  as  very  singular  at 'the  time. 
That  man  must  have  gone  through  a  great  deal  with 
poverty  or  something  else,"  still  pondering  the  work- 
man's look  in  his  thoughts. 

Murmurs  of  admiration  and  curiosity  followed  the 
party  on  their  tour  through  the  buildings.  Nobody, 
however,  paid  any  attention  to  these,  even  when  scraps 
of  talk  came  to  their  ears;  but,  when  they  all  had 
reached  one  of  the  long  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  and 
were  watching  the  ascent  of  the  elevators,  some  com- 
ments among  a  group  of  men  outside  floated  to  Miss 
Carruthers. 

"  I  say,  Jack,  the  young  chap  ought  to  marry  the 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY,  137 

beautiful  lady.  It  is  the  least  he  could  do  to  show  his 
gratitude,  after  all  she's  done  for  him." 

"  That's  a  fact,  Pete.  It's  the  man's  bounden  duty 
to  offer  himself,  and  it  won't  be  fair  on  the  lady  if  he 
don't  face  the  music.  It's  lucky  for  him,  seein'  she 
saved  his  life,  that  she's  such  a  beauty." 

Then  there  was  a  hoarse  laugh  or  two  that  rasped 
Miss  Carruthers'  nerves  terribly.  I  believe,  if  she  could 
have  swept  out  and  annihilated  those  men  with  one 
blaze  of  her  scornful  eyes,  she  would  have  been  tempted 
to  do  it.  Her  face  was  at  a  very  white  heat  of  anger  as 
she  turned  toward  the  rest  of  the  party. 

Not  one  of  them  seemed  to  have  heard  the  talk. 
They  were  still  absorbed  in  the  ascent  of  the  elevators, 
and  afterward,  having  accomplished  the  tour  of  the 
buildings,  they  proceeded  homeward. 

"  Something  has  gone  wrong  with  Marjorie,"  thought 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh  by  the  time  they  had  reached  their  own 
door.  "  What  can  it  be  ?" 

But  Dr.  A  very  had  a  key  to  the  change  in  Marjorie' s 
mood,  having  overheard  the  workmen's  talk,  which  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh  had  not. 

Riding  home  a  few  minutes  later,  the  old  man  shook 
his  head  gravely.  "  Pity,  pity  she  should  overhear 
it,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "With  her  high  spirits 
and  morbid  sensitiveness  too.  Stray  arrows  of  that 
sort  wouldn't  gall  so  keenly,  though,  in  sound  flesh. 
Ah,  my  child,  you  have  a  heart,  but  you  are  as  proud 
as  Lucifer,  and  I  see  trouble  ahead  —  trouble  ahead  ; J> 


138  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

and  meditating  over  all  this,  Dr.  Avery  forgot  the  look 
which  had  struck  him  in  the  eyes  of  Hardy  Shumway. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  paced  up  and  down  her  room  that 
night,  her  nerves  like  fire  or  ice.  the  careless,  gross  talk 
of  the  workmen  haunting  her  thoughts  like  the  midnight 
screeching  of  birds ;  but,  worse  than  that,  they  seemed 
arrows  tipped  with  venom,  finding  some  sore  place  in  the 
girl's  soul. 

Marjorie's  pride,  strong  and  deep  as  her  life,  had 
taken  the  alarm.  "  What  if  people  should  fancy  she  had 
saved  Benjamin  Whitmarsh's  life,  because  she  was  —  " 
She  could  not  face  the  thought  now.  Its  weight  seemed 
to  fairly  crush  her  to  the  earth.  Then  there  flashed 
across  her  memory  old  ballads  and  romances  of  what 
women  had  suffered  for  the  sake  of  the  man  they  loved, 
following  them  to  the  camp  and  the  battle-field  in  dis- 
guises of  page  and  armor-bearer.  There  was  Eleanor 
of  Castile,  for  instance  ;  she  had  sucked  the  poison  from 
her  lord's  wound,  and  been  famous  forever  afterward. 

11  Did  the  world  believe  women  ever  did  these  heroic 
things  except  for  their  love's  sake?  "  her  cheeks  hot  like 
fire.  She  —  Marjorie  Carruthers  —  had  never  in  her 
whole  life  felt  so  utterly  appalled.  What  if  Ben  Whit- 
marsh  had  thought  the  same  thing  ?  For  the  moment 
she  almost  wished  she  had  left  him  there  to  die  —  not  so 
much  as  lifted  a  hand  in  his  extremity.  As  though  she 
would  not  have  done  precisely  the  same  thing  for  the 
meanest  wretch  on  God's  earth,  if  he  had  been  laid  before 
her  in  just  that  plight ! 

But  who  would  believe  this  ?     No  doubt  the  workmen 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY.  139 

spoke  tbe  universal  conviction  —  very  probably  that  of 
Ben  Whitmarsh  himself! 

Men  were  vain  creatures  at  the  best,  and  why  should 
he  be  an  exception  to  his  sex  ?  No  doubt  he  felt  im- 
mensely grateful  and  all  that  to  the  woman  who  had 
saved  his  life  ;  and  he  was  a  generous  fellow.  What  if, 
taking  the  matter  into  grave  consideration,  he  should 
come  to  the  very  legitimate  conclusion  that  duty  required 
him  to  offer  his  heart  and  hand  to  Miss  Carruthers,  —  that 
this  was,  in  short,  the  only  proper  and  graceful  method 
in  which  he  could  cancel  the  great  obligation  under  which 
the  signal  proof  of  her  regard  had  placed  him  ? 

How  the  scornful  irony  of  her  thoughts  stung  and 
lashed  the  proud,  stormy,  weak,  noble  nature  of  the 
woman  ! 

She,  Marjorie  Carruthers,  wooed  out  of  a  sense  of  duty, 
gratitude,  by  living  man  ! 

Then  the  girl  remembered,  with  a  start  of  dismay,  all 
the  long,  pleasant  intimacy  of  the  weeks  of  Ben  Whit 
marsh's  convalescence.  How  blind  she  had  been  !  No 
doubt  the  fellow  regarded  her  manner  as  corroborative  of 
that  most  hateful  suspicion.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  have  almost  torn  herself  in  pieces  with  rage  at  her 
folly.  There  were  John  and  Eleanor,  too,  —  keeping 
their  thoughts,  of  course,  religiously  to  themselves,  but  no 
doubt  having  them  all  the  same. 

But  it  was  not  too  late  for  some  change  in  her  bearing 
toward  young  Whitmarsh  ;  and,  fortunately  enough,  he 
had  not  overheard  that  vile  talk  this  afternoon.  Marjorie 
believed  she  should  have  died  of  chagrin  in  that  case. 


140  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

"  Let  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  dare  to  ask  me  to  be  his 
wife  out  of  duty,  gratitude  !  "  cried  Marjorie  Carruthers, 
all  alone  to  herself,  looking  like  a  beautiful  angry  Py- 
thoness ;  and  she  brought  down  her  clenched  hand  on 
the  mantel,  and  left  a  cruel  bruise  on  her  wrist,  and  did 
not  feel  it. 

The  pride  of  this  woman  was  a  terrible  thing :  one 
side  of  it  was  the  worst  fault  of  Marjorie  Carruthers. 

Downstairs,  on  the  veranda,  in  the  soft  spring  night, 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh  sat  thinking  his  thoughts  too. 
Marjorie  was  mistaken ;  he  had  overheard  the  talk  of 
the  workmen,  and  it  haunted  his  thoughts  also. 

"  The  poor  fools  !  "  he  muttered  to  himself.  "  Marry 
such  a  woman  as  Marjorie  Carruthers  for  duty,  grati- 
tude, —  anything  of  that  sort !  "  Then  he  thought  of 
her  as  he  had  known  her  during  these  last  few  weeks,  in 
her  sweetness  and  gentleness  and  beauty,  the  radiant, 
noble,  lofty  creature.  She  had  her  faults ;  but  now  he 
believed  that  he  liked  those  even  better  than  the  virtues 
of  other  women.  He  thought  of  her  fine,  generous  nature, 
of  the  gifts  and  culture  of  a  mind  that  always  stimulated 
his  own,  acting  on  his  thought  like  wine  in  his  veins ;  he 
thought  of  what  it  would  be  to  always  live  with  her,  to 
love  her,  protect  her,  cherish  her ;  and,  sitting  there  under 
God's  eternal  stars,  his  heart  took  her  into  it,  the  woman 
of  its  love. 

There  came  across  him  once  or  twice  the  memory  of 
his  young  ideal,  looking  so  stupid  and  inane  by  the  side 
of  this  creature,  all  alive  with  spirit,  thought,  feeling, 
that  he  shook  off  the  old  fancy,  half  cursing  himself  for 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  141 

his  stupidity.  Yet  in  his  whole  life  I  think  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh  had  never  been  quite  so  good  a  man  as  at  this 
moment  —  never  felt  so  keen  a  sense  of  his  own  unwor- 
thiness. 

If  the  first  knowledge  of  love  for  any  woman  does  not 
make  a  man  both  humbler  and  better  in  his  secret  soul, 
it  is  poor  stuff  for  them  both  ;  and  the  years,  trying  so 
sharply  what  it  is  made  of,  will  be  likely  to  find  the  tex- 
ture flimsy  and  threadbare  enough. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  saw  clearly,  looking  over  the 
past,  how  his  love  for  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  uncon- 
sciously, on  his  part,  wrought  itself  into  his  very  being, 
and,  in  the  new  tenderness  which  exalted  while  it  soft- 
ened and  steadied  the  whole  man,  his  life  and  that  of  all 
other  lives  of  men  and  women  took  on  new  and  holier 
significance  to  him.  It  was  better  than  the  old.  ram- 
bling, aesthetic  one,  whose  issues  were  all  in  himself,  to 
live  with  this  woman,  protect  her  weakness,  make  wider 
her  joys,  to  minister  to  her ;  if  need  were,  to  suffer  for 
her ;  and  the  years  opened  before  him  in  great,  luminous 
spaces,  until  the  strong  man's  heart  fairly  shook  within 
him  like  a  frightened  maiden's. 

Then  he  thought  of  Marjorie ;  could  he  ever  win  that 
rare,  fine,  proud  spirit,  soft  like  dew  and  swift  and  daz- 
zling like  fire  ?  The  might  of  his  own  love  made  him 
steady  and  strong  to  put  all  at  stake.  Yet  he  hardly 
once  thought  to-night  of  what  she  had  done  for  him,  far 
less  of  any  claim  of  gratitude  she  held  on  him.  It  was 
his  heart's  allegiance,  which  no  debt  nor  duty  could  have 
bought,  that  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  offered  Marjorie  Car- 


142  THE   MILLS    OP  TUXBURY. 

ruthers.  It  was  for  her  own  sake,  not  even  for  his  life 
preserved,  that  he  loved  her.  Overhead  was  the  solemn 
shining  of  the  April  stars.  They  had  looked  down  on 
him  like  this  in  wide,  still  horizons  of  desert,  on  rocking 
oceans,  on  mountain  heights  of  eternal  snows,  and  in  val- 
leys that  were  little  cool  idyls  of  beauty  and  fragrance  ; 
but  to-night  the  stars  of  God  touched  his  soul  with  new 
and  tenderer  meanings,  and  out  of  a  softened,  reverent 
heart,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  taking  off  his  hat,  rose  up 
and  thanked  God. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  143 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BERRY  SHUMWAY  sat  by  the  window  in  the  pleasant 
afternoon  sunshine,  knitting  a  muffler  ;  flocks  of  pleasant 
thoughts  alive  in  her  face,  twinkling  in  her  eyes,  and 
glancing  about  her  lips  in  smiles,  which  just  touched 
them  with  brightness,  and  passed  away. 

These  were  very  pleasant  days  to  Berry.  It  seemed 
as  though  her  heart  was  waking  out  of  the  cold  and  dark 
of  the  dreadful  winter  that  was  gone,  just  as  the  birds 
were  that  had  begun  already  to  sing  among  the  trees. 

Hardy  was  kinder  to  her  than  ever ;  had  insisted  on 
her  taking  a  vacant  place  at  one  of  the  looms  in  the  cot- 
ton mills,  which  allowed  her  every  other  afternoon  at 
home.  The  wages  were  a  trifle  diminished,  it  is  true, 
and  a  trifle  was  a  great  matter  to  Hardy  and  Berry 
Shumway,  but  he  had  said,  when  she  had  spoken  of 
that,  in  his  kindest  way,  "Never  mind,  little  sister; 
you  kept  the  soul  and  body  of  us  both  together  last 
spring,  and  it's  only  fair  I  should  do  as  much  for  you 
now." 

Berry  is  very  busy,  as  I  said,  this  afternoon,  knitting 
a  muffler  of  clouded  gray  and  white  wools.  Every  little 
while  she  stops  to  inspect  it,  setting  her  head  critically 
on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  and  patting  her  work 
approvingly,  for  there  is  some  inborn  skill  in  those 


144  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 

brown,  wiry  fingers.  Whatever  they  set  themselves  to 
do  they  will  do  well. 

Berry  is  putting  her  heart  into  every  stitch  which  she 
sets  in  that  work.  She  has  been  carefully  scraping  to- 
gether her  little  factory  earnings  to  buy  the  wools,  not 
asking  Hardy  for  a  sixpence,  because  he  needed  all  his 
wages  to  pull  him  out  of  the  debts  he  had  incurred  that 
winter ;  but  this  present  is  for  Dr.  Avery. 

"  It  will  be  just  the  thing  he  needs  when  he  is  off 
riding  nights,"  Berry  says  to  her  brother  ;  and  then  she 
thinks  to  herself  that  "the  doctor  will  value  the  gift 
just  as  much,  coming  from  her,  — little  Berry  Shumway, 
—  as  though  the  proudest  lady  in  the  land  had  made  it 
for  him.  If  people  are  poor  and  humble,  he  does  not 
think  the  less  of  them,  Dr.  Avery  doesn't,  if  they  have 
true,  good,  honest  hearts  — she  knows." 

So  Berry's  thoughts  go  to  herself.  In  the  midst  of 
them  Hardy  shoves  open  the  door  and  comes  in  from  his 
day's  work.  Berry  purses  up  her  mouth,  and  there  is  a 
little  tartness  in  her  tone  as  she  bids  him  good-evening, 
much  like  a  mother  to  a  boy  who  has  infringed,  in  a 
small  way,  some  of  her  rules. 

Hardy  goes  as  usual  to  the  mantel  and  fills  his  pipe, 
for  it  is  a  full  hour  yet  to  supper-time. 

Then  Berry  speaks  :  "  Hardy,  I've  learned  all  about 
it  from  Jane  Coyle ;  "  the  tartness  very  salient  in  her 
tones  now. 

"Heard  all  about  what?"  twisting  a  bit  of  brown 
paper  into  a  wisp. 

"  About  the  grand  folks  at  Tuxbury  goin'  all  through 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXDURT.  145 

the  factory,  and  how  they  all  stopped  and  said  a  good 
many  nice  things  to  somebody  I  know.  Lake  Coyle, 
who  stood  near,  thought  it  was  all  worth  tellin'  to  his 
sister,  and  she  was  beat  this  mornin'  when  she  found  I'd 
never  heard  a  lisp  of  it. ' ' 

Hardy  had  lighted  his  pipe  by  this  time ;  he  threw 
down  the  flaming  paper  and  set  his  foot  on  it. 

"  There  wasn't  much  to  tell,"  he  said,  making  a  very 
poor  effort  at  self-defence. 

"  Not  much  to  tell  !  "  repeated  Berry,  putting  down 
her  work  and  looking  at  him  with  a  face  that  said  unut- 
terable things.  "Hardy,  I  could  box  your  ears,  I  de- 
clare I  could !  " 

"  T wouldn't  pay  this  time,  I  guess,  Berry,"  trying 
clumsily  to  turn  the  matter  off  with  a  jest. 

"  Hardy  Shumway  !  "  the  little,  swift  tongue  loosened 
and  going  energetically  enough  now.  "To  think  such 
a  thing  could  have  happened,  and  you  kept  still  for  three 
whole  days  about  it,  when  you  knew  I  should  be  just 
crazy  to  hear !  What  has  got  into  you  ?  " 

Hardy  settled  his  big  limbs  in  the  chair  with  a  won- 
derfully submissive  air,  considering  who  the  small  creat- 
ure was  that  took  him  to  task  so  peremptorily ;  yet  there 
was  some  trouble  in  his  face  which  the  circumstances 
hardly  seemed  to  call  for. 

"Hardy,"  in  the  tones  of  one  who  was  resolute  on 
coming  at  the  truth  now,  "  what  was  the  reason  you  did 
not  tell  me?  " 

"  I  was  willing  enough  to  do  it,  Berry  ;  but  somehow, 
when  the  time  come,  I  couldn't  set  about  it." 


146  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBJ7RT. 

The  something  in  his  voice  that  haunted  his  face :  a 
kind  of  smothered  pain.  His  back  was  toward  Berry, 
but  she  felt  the  voice. 

It  softened  the  girl  at  once,  for,  despite  all  the  happi- 
ness of  these  later  days,  she  was  not  just  at  ease  about 
Hardy.  He  seemed  a  great  deal  more  like  himself,  now 
he  had  got  to  work  once  more  ;  yet  there  was  a  vague, 
impalpable  something  about  him  which  baffled  her  when 
she  set  her  wits  to  thinking  about  it,  —  wits  not  easily 
baffled  either.  She  never  recalled  his  look  on  that 
morning  when  she  left  him  at  the  factory  door  without  a 
shudder,  and  she  had  a  kind  of  half-motherly  anxiety 
about  the  big,  stolid  fellow  all  the  time  ;  a  kind  of  doubt 
lest  he  had  not  quite  recovered  from  the  shock  and  long 
anguish  of  last  winter ;  and  she  had  an  unacknowledged 
feeling,  too,  that  Hardy  had  never  depended  on  her  quite 
so  much  as  at  this  time. 

"  Well,  Hardy,"  in  a  half-encouraging,  half-patron- 
izing tone,  "  I  won't  say  anymore  about  it;  only  I 
want  to  hear  the  whole  now." 

After  a  preliminary  whiff  or  two  at  his  pipe:  "You 
know  all  I  can  tell  already." 

"  Ah,  Hardy,  come  now,  don't  get  off  that  way,"  with 
another  burst  of  impatience  in  her  voice ;  and  then,  re- 
flecting that  men  never  could  be  expected  to  talk  like 
girls  and  women,  Berry  came  to  the  rescue  in  considera- 
tion of  the  incapacity  of  his  sex  :  — 

"  There  were  four  of  them,  Hardy  ?  " 

"  That  was  all." 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURT.  147 

"  Mr.  Whitmarsh,  and  the  beautiful  lady  that  saved 
his  life,  and  his  sister-in-law,  and  Dr.  A  very." 

"  You've  got  em'  all  down,"  replied  Hardy,  as  though 
he  would  like  to  drop  the  subject.  Berry  had,  however, 
not  the  faintest  intention  of  letting  him  off  so  easily. 

"  And  the  young  gentleman  is  getting  on  wonderfully, 
they  say.  He  looks  thin  and  pale  yet,  but  he'll  be  just 
as  sound  as  he  was  before  that  dreadful  thing  happened. 
What  a  mercy  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Hardy,  briskly,  and  a  sudden  pleasure 
shone  in  his  light  eyes.  "  He'll  be  jest  as  well  as  though 
that  had  never  happened  to  him." 

"  And,  Hardy,  what  made  you  so  stunned-like  at  first 
when  Mr.  Whitmarsh  spoke  to  you  so  kindly  ?  —  when 
he's  proved  himself  such  a  great  friend,  too ;  the  least 
you  could  do  was  to  thank  him." 

"  Don't  talk  about  it,  Berry.  I  hadn't  any  words  to 
say.  I  couldn't  help  it,"  his  voice  thick  and  rapid,  his 
feet  moving  uneasily. 

"  But  you  did  find  something  to  say  at  last,  —  to  the 
young  lady,  I  mean,"  a  little  archly. 

When  it  came  to  talking  of  Miss  Carruthers,  it  seemed 
quite  another  matter  with  Hardy.  He  went  over  all 
that  had  passed  between  himself  and  the  young  lady  with 
a  minuteness  and  animation  in  strong  contrast  with  his 
manner  at  first,  while  Berry  hung  upon  every  word  ;  and 
he  also  repeated  Dr.  A  very 's  speech,  which  set  the  girl's 
face  on  fire  with  delighted  blushes. 

When  he  was  through  with  it  all,  Berry  came  over  to 
her  brother,  her  cheeks  all  in  a  glow,  and  she  laid  her 


148  THE   MILLS    OF   TUX£URY. 

hands  on  his  shoulder  :  "I  think  that  young  Whitmarsh 
understood  all  you  felt,  Hardy,  and  that  what  you  said 
was  just  as  good  as  a  great  many  thanks." 

"  I  couldn't  talk  to  him  — I  couldn't,"  said  Hardy, 
in  that  smothered,  rapid  way  again,  as  though  something 
hurt  him. 

Berry  thought  the  sight  of  young  Whitmarsh  brought 
back  all  the  old  misery  of  that  time  when  her  brother 
had  been  turned  out  of  the  Mills  and  the  dreadful  days 
that  followed. 

Hardy  was  a  silent,  brooding  fellow,  Berry  reflected, 
"  but  troubles  went  deep  with  him,"  and  stayed  there. 
She  went  on  talking  of  Miss  Carruthers. 

"  Don't  you  think  she  has  a  beautiful  face,  Hardy? 
Just  the  face  of  a  woman  who  would  do  what  she  did  that 
night ! " 

His  own  brightened  all  over  again.  He  described 
Miss  Carruthers'  face  in  a  way  that  was  quite  wonderful, 
considering  Hardy  had  only  seen  it  once  in  his  life,  lin- 
gering on  every  lineament  and  expression,  almost  as 
though  the  stolid  workman  were  some  artist  dwelling  on 
the  face  that  he  had  worshipped  and  wrought  out  slowly 
in  all  its  perfection  of  color  and  outline  upon  his  canvas. 

"  It  looks  wonderfully  beautiful  to  me,  that  woman's 
face.  In  all  the  world  one  will  never  look  like  that," 
speaking  solemnly,  almost  under  his  breath. 

"  It  can't  seem  any  more  beautiful  to  you  than  it  does 
to  me,  Hardy,"  replied  Berry,  positively.  "  I  know 
just  how  she  looked  when  she  smiled  at  you." 

"No,  Berry;  she  may  be  beautiful  in  your  eyes,  but 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  149 

that  woman  will  never  look  to  anybody  else  just  as  she 
does  to  me." 

Berry  glanced  up  in  surprise.  There  was  Hardy,  with 
his  big  jaws  and  his  heavy,  solemn  face.  She  would 
have  her  joke  over  it,  though,  for  Berry's  native  spirits 
were  always  given  to  overflowing  in  little,  bright  sparkles 
of  jests  that  only  needed  culture  and  pruning  to  make 
them  keen  and  witty  shafts  in  elegant  society. 

' '  I  guess,  Hardy  Shumway,  if  Miss  Carruthers  had  a 
lover,  he  would  think  it  was  mighty  funny  to  hear  you 
go  on  in  that  way." 

"Maybe,"  he  said,  but  the  heavy  jaws  did  not  relax 
into  any  smile.  Berry  could  not  divine  what  was  at 
work  under  the  broad,  reddish  face. 

She  fell  into  serious  thought  for  a  few  moments, 
"Hardy  was  so  odd,"  while  her  brother  puffed  at  his 
pipe.  Of  a  sudden  Berry  broke  out  again:  "Don't 
you  think,  Hardy,  it's  very  funny  they've  never  got  any 
clue  to  them  murderers?  " 

Hardy  winced  and  shuffled  his  feet  unsteadily.  "I 
haven't  thought  much  about  it  of  late,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  have;  Jane  Coyle  says  they've  pretty  much 
given  up  the  search  around  here,  thinkin'  the  wretches 
must  have  come  from  a  distance,  it  was  so  coolly  planned 
and  carried  out." 

Hardy  gave  a  grunt  and  sat  still  at  his  pipe. 

"  Phew  !  that  awful  tobacco  !  How  I  hate  it !  "  cried 
Berry,  with  a  sniff  of  disgust. 

"Well,  I  forgot,  child;  I'll  go  out-doors  and  finish 
up  this  pipe." 


150  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

But  Hardy  said  this  with  a  kind  of  weary  hopeless- 
ness that  touched  her  again :  "  No  you  won't,  either," 
holding  him  back  with  one  hand  on  his  knee.  ' '  Never 
mind  me,  Hardy  ;  I  can  stand  it." 

Another  little  silence  betwixt  the  two,  and  then  the 
girl  returned  to  the  old  subject :  "  Do  you  know,  Hardy, 
if  I  had  to  pick  out  the  man  among  all  the  men  I  ever 
saw,  as  most  likely  to  do  that  dreadful  deed,  who  it 
would  be?" 

Hardy  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth;  his  hand 
shook.  "No,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  and 
each  word  seemed  to  drop  like  a  weight  of  lead  from  his 
lips. 

"  It  was  that  Blatchley,  horrid  old  thing !  His  face 
looked  just  bad  enough  for  some  awful  wickedness.  It's 
funny  the  way  it  came  across  me  the  other  day ;  but  who 
knows  now  but  what  it  was  really  him?  " 

Hardy's  pipe  dropped  to  pieces  on  the  floor.  His  lips 
turned  livid,  and  a  little,  sharp,  suppressed  moan  broke 
through  them. 

Berry  looked  up.  and  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant : 
"  Why,  Hardy,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"Nothing;  I  don't  know,  child,"  dragging  his  hand 
across  his  forehead. 

"Are  you  sick,  Hardy?  Can't  I  do  something  for 
you?" 

"No.  only —  What  was  you  a-sayin'  jest  ago, 
Berry?" 

"  Oh,  nothin',  only  some  foolish  talk  of  mine  about 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  151 

old  Blatchley's  bein'  the  man  who  tried  to  murder 
young  Whitmarsh.  You  didn't  mind  that,  Hardy?" 

''It's  an  awful  thing  to  say  about  any  man,  — I  tell 
you  it  is,  Berry,"  grasping  her  arm  and  speaking  in  a 
rapid,  hoarse  voice,  with  some  terror  in  his  eyes  that 
fairly  set  their  dulness  all  ablaze.  "It  might  bring 
dreadful  trouble." 

"  But  I  shan't  say  anything  about  it.  Of  course  I 
didn't  really  mean  I  thought  old  Blatchley  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  matter  ;  and  I  should  feel  it  was  wicked  to 
say  a  man  was  a  murderer,  because  he  had  a  bad  face. 
He  might  be  innocent,  for  all  that." 

"  Yes,  he  might,  and —  You're  sure,  Berry,  you 
haven't  said  anything  to  anybody,  — not  a  lisp?" 

"  I'm  sure  as  I  stand  here,  Hardy  Shumway,  I 
haven't  said  one  word  to  a  livin'  soul,  and  never  shall ; 
only  you  needn't  feel  cut  up  about  it ;  he  wasn't  really 
any  friend  o'  yourn  anyhow ;  you'd  only  seen  him  a  few 
times." 

"  Not  many  times,"  the  strained,  shocked  look  in  his 
eyes  still.  "  But,  Berry,  even  if  it  was  true,  which  of 
course  I  don't  mean,  yet  Blatchley  might  have  friends 
that  loved  and  believed  in  him,  —  a  mother,  or  a  little 
sister,  like  you  now." 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  of  that,"  her  voice  startled  at 
first.  "  But  then  it  never  could  be  if  he  was  a  mur- 
derer. They'd  be  sure  to  find  it  out." 

"  They  mightn't ;  such  things  have  happened;"  his 
eyes  dropped  away  from  hers,  his  voice  hoarse  in  his 
throat. 


152  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

"  Don't  talk  about  such  dreadful  things,  Hardy.  I'm 
sure  they  never  entered  my  mind  when  I've  gone  on  so 
about  them  murderers.  But  I  don't  believe  they  ever 
had  any  friends.  If  they  had,  and  they  ever  knew,  it 
would  strike  them  dead  at  one  blow." 

The  man  looked  up  at  the  girl  now  :  "  Yes,  I  think  it 
would  kill  you,  Berry,"  speaking  in  a  kind  of  slow, 
dazed  way. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  and  I  talking  about 
such  things  for,  Hardy  Shumway  ?  "  said  Berry,  stand- 
ing up  and  shaking  off  a  kind  of  black  nightmare  which 
seemed  to  have  dropped  stifling  upon  her.  "  Why,  it's 
as  bad  as  telling  over  ghost  stories." 

"  That's  a  fact !  "  answered  Hardy,  much  like  a  man 
preoccupied,  and  not  exactly  aware  of  what  he  was 
saying. 

Berry  went  to  the  cupboard,  hunted  up  another  pipe, 
and  set  that  and  his  little  tin  box  of  tobacco  before  her 
brother,  her  care  or  pity  always  taking  some  form  of 
practical  helpfulness,  you  see ;  nothing  unsound  or 
morbid  in  her  temperament. 

"Now,  Hardy,  you  just  comfort  yourself  with  that, 
and  I'll  set  about  getting  tea.  I  mean  to  give  you  a 
real  treat  to-night,  poor  old  fellow!"  patting  the  big 
head  much  as  she  would  a  dog's. 

She  had  her  times  of  standing  in  fear  of  Hardy,  but 
this  was  not  one  of  them. 

So  she  pattered  busily  back  and  forth,  humming  tunes 
sometimes  to  herself,  while  the  man  sat  still  and  puffed 


THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBURT.  153 

at  his  pipe,  and  the  shocked  look  gradually  wore  out  of 
his  eyes. 

At  last  Berry  came  and  said,  with  a  good  deal  of  an 
air,  "  Now,  Mr.  Shumway,  your  supper  is  all  ready." 

He  went  out,  and  sure  enough  there  were  fresh  biscuit 
and  nice  coffee,  and  a  little  dish  of  smoking  perch,  which 
Hardy  was  so  fond  of,  —  a  clean,  tempting  table  for  a 
poor,  hungry  workman. 

He  looked  pleased  enough  to  satisfy  Berry  as  he  sat 
down  to  it.  She  had  done  what  she  could ;  but,  after  all, 
no  kindly  words,  no  skill,  nor  care  of  the  warm,  helpful 
little  heart  and  hands  could  go  down  where  the  hurt  lay 
deep  and  vital  in  the  soul  of  Hardy  Shumway. 


154  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBUET. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  CHANGE  had  come  suddenly  over  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers.  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  dated  it  from  the  afternoon 
of  their  visit  to  the  Mills,  and  recalled  every  occurrence 
of  that  time,  vainly  seeking  to  dive  to  the  occult  cause 
of  the  transition  in  her  cousin's  manner. 

It  had  entered  on  quite  another  phase :  all  that  charm 
and  softness  which  had  marked  her  during  the  conva- 
lescence of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had  disappeared  now. 
She  was  the  proud,  restless,  uncertain  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers  of  old,  liable  to  sudden  heats  of  temper,  her 
moods  exacting  or  haughty  or  frigid ;  and,  worse  than 
all  the  rest,  her  irony  spared  nobody ;  it  cut  smooth  and 
sharp  as  a  scythe ;  it  struck  bright  and  swift  as  light- 
ning. Poor  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  sometimes  for  the 
moment  quite  wilted  beneath  it ;  not  that  she  cared  for 
herself,  —  her  love  for  Marjorie  struck  its  roots  down  in 
great  central  depths,  where  no  tumult  of  the  girl's 
stormy  nature  could  shake  them,  — but  she  was  on 
nettles  for  the  sake  of  others.  John  Whitmarsh  was  a 
man,  with  opinions  of  his  own,  and  Miss  Carruthers  did 
not  spare  him  a  sudden  slash  of  her  sarcasm  now  and 
then ;  in  fact,  his  wife  was  perfectly  conscious  that  he 
bore  from  that  young  woman's  tempers  and  moods  what 
he  would  from  no  other  human  being,  mindful  always 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  155 

of  the  great  desolation  of  heart  and  household  from 
which  she  had  saved  him ;  still,  his  gratitude  could  not 
wholly  neutralize  the  impression  which  Marjorie's  con- 
duct began  to  make  on  him. 

And  then  it  was  very  hard  for  Eleanor  to  have  that 
pretty  cabinet  of  domestic  pictures,  with  her  brother-in- 
law  and  her  cousin  the  central  figures,  all  swept  into 
chaos.  It  would  take  a  bolder  man  than  Benedick  to 
attempt  to  tame  such  a  Beatrice,  for  it  did  seem  as 
though  these  days  Miss  Carruthers  was  bent  upon  treat- 
ing young  Whitmarsh  a  little  worse  than  she  did  any- 
body else.  She  was  always  quarrelling  with  him  now  ; 
always  challenging  his  opinions  of  authors,  of  people,  of 
countries ;  cutting  in  amongst  his  talk  with  the  sharp, 
glittering  edge  of  her  irony.  It  appeared  to  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh  that  the  creature  was  set  upon  making  herself 
absolutely  dreaded  and  hateful ;  yet  the  latter  it  was  not 
in  the  power  of  Marjorie  Carruthers  to  be.  Her  c&usin 
was  not  assured  that  she  had  ever  been  quite  so  brilliant 
and  fascinating  as  at  this  very  time.  For  some  reason 
all  her  faculties  seemed  alive  and  aglow.  How  her  wit 
did  sparkle  !  What  a  glitter  there  was  in  her  sarcasm  ! 

Whether  it  was  the  memory  of  what  she  had  done  for 
him  one  night,  or  whether  these  moods  and  tempers  only 
stimulated  and  amused  him,  his  sister-in-law  could  not 
tell ;  but,  although  she  often  sat  trembling,  Ben  never 
seemed  offended,  as  he  had  a  perfect  right  to  be ;  nay, 
more,  he  seemed  to  enjoy  whatever  side  of  herself  Miss 
Carruthers  condescended  to  turn  toward  him.  Not  that 
he  proved  himself  unequal  to  a  contest  with  that  young 


156  THE   MILLS   OF  TVXBURY. 

lady's  wits;  a  woman  might  have  saved  his  life,  —  and 
that  must  hedge  her  around  with  an  eternal  sacredness 
in  his  thought  and  feeling,  —  but  that  was  no  reason  why 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh  should  tamely  submit  to  what  was 
as  nearly  tantalizing  indifference  and  sneers  and  insults, 
as  a  well-bred  woman's  talk  and  tones  and  manner  could 
possibly  be.  Ben  Whitmarsh  would  ride  bravely  into 
the  lists  at  Miss  Carruthers'  challenge,  and  the  en- 
counter, although  it  used  to  hold  the  young  hostess 
trembling  and  breathless,  was  like  some  grand  fencing- 
match,  between  the  fine  cultivated  wits  of  this  man  and 
woman. 

Ben  Whitmarsh  was  no  light  antagonist.  He  often, 
his  sister-in-law  thought,  turned  her  cousin's  weapons 
with  wonderful  power  and  grace  upon  herself;  and 
though  he  never  forgot  that  he  was  a  man  and  she  a 
woman,  or  the  courtesy  that  "doublet  owed  to  petti- 
coat," still,  on  her  own  ground,  Miss  Carruthers  was 
very  often  pretty  thoroughly  worsted,  which  Eleanor 
keenly  enjoyed,  for  she  was  sometimes  as  provoked  as 
possible  with  Marjorie's  behavior,  and  heartily  wished 
that  she  was  no  bigger  than  her  own  boy,  so  that  she 
could  give  her  "a  thorough  spanking." 

But  if  Marjorie  was  bent  on  making  herself  dis- 
agreeable, she  forgot  it  sometimes,  and  then  that  won- 
derfully sweet,  childlike  side  of  her  would  shine  out 
suddenly,  like  some  May  morning's  bloom  and  fragrance, 
leaning  out  of  stormy  gusts  of  wind  and  rain.  Smiles 
would  come  into  her  face,  and  possess  it  with  their  own 
marvel  of  sweetness ;  her  talk,  whether  grave  or  gay, 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  157 

would  have  its  own  seductive  charm ;  and  one  would 
never  dream  that  the  girl,  sitting  there  in  her  soft 
loveliness,  could  chill  suddenly  into  frost  or  kindle  into 
fire.  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  looking  at  her  cousin,  would 
wonder  to  herself :  : '  You  are  sweet  above  all  living 
women,  Marjorie  Carruthers.  Alas !  why  are  you  also 
the  strangest?" 

More  than  once  Mr.  Whitmarsh  said  to  his  wife, 
"  Eleanor,  what  has  got  into  your  cousin?  She  is  the 
most  unaccountable  being  I  ever  saw.  Why,  her  tongue 
and  her  temper  are  terrific  things,  and  we  all  seem  to 
take  our  turn  in  falling  victims  to  them." 

11  Ah,  John,  you  don't  understand  Marjorie,"  always 
standing  promptly  and  bravely  on  the  defensive  where 
her  cousin  was  concerned.  "  I  know  she  is  a  high-strung 
creature ;  but  I  never  mind  her  crotchets,  any  more  than 
I  do  baby's  tantrums.  A  great  deal  of  her  moods  come, 
just  now,  from  her  overstrung  nerves.  They  had  a 
dreadful  strain  one  night  not  long  ago." 

That  allusion  was  always  certain  to  leave  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh in  entire  possession  of  the  field,  when  the  character 
or  conduct  of  Marjorie  was  the  subject  of  discussion  be- 
twixt Eleanor  and  her  husband. 

"  No  doubt  they  did,  my  dear.  It  certainly  does  not 
become  me,  of  all  men,  to  criticise  your  cousin.  If  she 
had  been  a  woman  of  the  ordinary,  commonplace  type,  she 
could  never  have  strung  herself  up  to  facing  that  night's 
work.  Poor  thing  !  we  ought  to  bear  patiently  with  any 
amount  of  her  moods."  But  the  man  could  not  help 
thinking  to  himself  that,  though  the  woman  capable  of  a 


158  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXDURT. 

great  heroism  was  necessary  for  emergencies,  yet  the 
gentler,  less  eccentric  type,  like  his  sweet  little  Eleanor, 
for  example,  was,  to  say  the  least,  much  more  comfort- 
able to  live  with. 

As  for  his  younger  brother,  he  was  in  love  with  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers.  I  use  the  words  now  in  their  deepest, 
holiest  sense,  not  in  the  superficial,  society  one. 

This  woman  had  entered  into  his  inmost  heart ;  yet, 
lover  as  he  was,  the  man  was  not  blind  to  her  faults,  and 
nothing  escaped  him  of  the  change  in  Miss  Carruthers' 
manners  toward  everybody  in  general,  himself  in  par- 
ticular. 

It  puzzled  him  quite  as  much  as  it  did  his  pretty 
sister-in-law  ;  but,  whatever  her  mood  was,  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers always  roused  and  fascinated  Benjamin  Whit- 
marsh. 

Down  deep  under  all  the  dazzle  of  her  wit,  or  the 
sword-like  glitter  of  her  irony,  throbbed  a  woman's  heart, 
loyal  and  tender.  Young  Whitmarsh  felt  that,  and  he 
could  no  more  help  the  outflow  of  his  affections  toward 
Miss  Carruthers  than  the  tides  can  help  returning  when 
the  hour  strikes,  and  swinging  over  the  shores  in  vast 
strength  and  splendor.  It  was  true  this  feeling  did  not 
prevent  him  from  meeting  Marjorie  on  her  own  ground. 
He  was  not  one  of  the  drawing-room  type  of  lovers, 
hanging  in  fascinated  adoration  on  a  woman's  face  and 
talk.  There  was  too  much  muscular  individuality  in 
the  man  for  any  stuff  of  that  sort.  Indeed,  some  of  Mar- 
jorie's  moods  always  acted  on  him  as  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  on  the  war-horse,  —  roused  all  his  latent  fire  and 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  159 

forces  to  meet  her.  to  brave  her  pride,  her  irony,  her 
scorn  —  in  some  sense  to  master  them. 

But  would  he  ever  be  able  to  conquer  this  strange, 
dazzling,  beautiful,  high-mettled  creature,  —  this  woman 
at  war  with  herself,  yet  with  the  heart  in  her  somewhere 
so  true,  and  precious,  and  tender,  and  womanly  ? 

Every  day  Ben  Whitmarsh  loved  her  a  little  better 
than  before  ;  and  when  Miss  Carruthers  was  particularly 
aggravating  and  disagreeable,  he  would  say  to  himself,  as 
a  lover  only  could,  "  Ah,  Marjorie,  beautiful  and  cold 
as  snow  upon  distant  mountain  heights,  or  as  white,  still 
lilies  in  the  hearts  of  summer  water-courses,  it  would  be 
a  mean,  shallow  love  enough  that  could  not  forgive  the 
storms  and  moods  of  the  fine,  grand,  generous  nature. 
At  least,  I  am  not  so  mean  that  they  can  ever  move  me, 
0  darling,  that  yet  I  may  never  call  mine  !  " 

To  tell  the  honest  truth,  too,  Marjorie  was  often 
ashamed  of  herself  when  she  got  away  to  her  own  room 
and  reflected  on  her  behavior  downstairs  ;  for,  although 
she  was  a  lady  essentially,  and  could  never  transcend 
the  bounds  of  good-breeding,  yet  one  may  be  insuffera- 
bly tantalizing  and  aggravating  within  those  limits.  But 
Miss  Carruthers  did  not  command  herself  these  days. 
Some  trouble  and  tumult  seemed  to  possess  her.  It 
filled  her  with  a  vague  dread,  tormented  her  with  some- 
thing which  she  could  not  or  would  not  face,  and  through 
all.  goading  and  stinging  her,  seemed  ever  to  rumble  in 
perpetual  monotone  the  foolish  talk  of  the  workmen  that 
afternoon  at  the  Mill. 

All  this  time  the  spring  was  deepening  among  the 


160  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 

hills  and  valleys  of  Tuxbury,  —  the  fresh,  tender,  deli- 
cious green  stealing  over  the  moist  earth  and  covering  it 
with  a  garment  of  beauty.  There  was  a  singing  of  birds 
in  the  morning,  a  thrill  of  sprouting  leaves  among  the 
branches,  and  soft,  delicious,  sunny  afternoons  of  the 
early  May. 

As  for  keeping  in  doors,  it  was  impossible.  Benja- 
min Whitmarsh  had  always  been  nomadic  in  his  habits, 
and  his  health  was  by  this  time  quite  beyond  the  neces- 
sity of  any  anxiety  on  the  part  of  others.  There  were 
daily  boatings,  and  drives,  and  excursions  of  all  sorts,  in 
which  Miss  Carruthers  joined,  whenever  she  could  be 
coaxed  or  cajoled  into  doing  this,  —  a  drive,  a  walk,  or  a 
sail  being  sure  to  put  her  into  a  radiant  humor. 

She  had  been  delicate  as  a  child,  was  that  indeed  now, 
and  always  would  be.  But  on  that  very  account  her 
uncle  had  her  thoroughly  trained  in  various  out-door  ex- 
ercises and  accomplishments,  not,  unfortunately,  deemed 
a  necessary  part  of  a  girl's  education.  She  could  row  a 
boat  or  manage  a  high-mettled  horse,  and  had  a  passion- 
ate fondness  for  things  of  that  sort.  And  it  came  to 
pass  that,  as  there  was  always  some  excursion  going  on 
which  took  the  family  out-doors  in  the  delicious  spring 
weather,  young  Whitmarsh  and  Miss  Carruthers  were 
still  constantly  thrown  together. 

The  girl,  it  is  true,  made  desperate  efforts  to  keep  in 
the  house,  and  not  join  Eleanor  and  Ben  in  their  rambles, 
and  once  or  twice  she  carried  her  point ;  but  the  spring, 
with  its  sprouting  grasses  and  singing  of  birds,  with  all 
its  delicious  thrills  of  air  and  sap  and  sunbeams,  proved 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  161 

too  much  for  the  will  and  pride  of  Marjorie  Carruthers. 
She  loved  all  these  as  a  child  does,  as  the  very  bob-o7- 
links  did,  darting  in  and  out  among  the  opening  of  the 
blossoms,  and  the  hungry  craving  of  her  soul  drove  her 
out  with  the  others;  and  there  nature  took  the  girl 
straight  into  her  strong,  warm  heart,  and  stilled  and 
gladdened  her  like  the  tender  hushes  of  a  mother; 
and  then  how  sweet,  and  bright,  and  playful,  how  alto- 
gether lovely  Miss  Carruthers  could  be,  her  cousin  out 
of  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  or  Ben  Whitmarsh  out  of 
his.  might  be  able  to  tell  you. 

One  day,  returning  at  noon  to  dinner,  the  gentleman 
found  the  ladies  out  on  the  veranda,  the  baby  in  a  per- 
petual migration  betwixt  his  mother  and  "  Aunt 
Madge,"  whose  name  he  had  just  begun  to  take  daintily 
betwixt  his  year-and-a-half  lips,  red  as  strawberries  with 
the  dew  on  them.  What  a  day  that  was,  leaning  down 
with  blue,  dreamy  eyes  to  gaze  into  the  golden  face  of 
June  !  The  gentlemen  took  off  their  hats,  and  Marjo- 
rie's  smile  came  out  at  its  sweetest,  and  with  Eleanor, 
welcomed  them  home. 

"  What  have  you  two  knight-errants  been  about  to- 
day? "  asked  the  latter,  laying  down  the  book  she  had 
been  reading  to  Miss  Carruthers. 

"  My  knight-errantry  has  been  of  the  most  prosaic 
kind,  —  still  at  the  old  mountain,  watching  the  digging 
and  drilling  and  blasting.  There  is  no  romance  in  these 
days  for  you  women ;  no  knights  with  plumes  and  case- 
armor,  and  war-horses  to  clatter  over  drawbridges  and 
deliver  you  from  lonely  castles  and  high  turrets  where 


162  THE  MILLS   OP  TUXBURT. 

you  are  held  unwilling  captives ;  no  lists,  nor  tourna- 
ments, nor  ladies'  favors,  nor  falcons  for  small  white 
wrists ;  no  pouring  out  to  the  chase  on  summer  morn- 
ings with  hound  and  hawk  and  handsome  page,  with 
waving  of  plumes  and  blowing  of  trumpets.  It  is  a  bare, 
coarse,  practical  age  enough,  —  hey,  my  Cousin  Mar- 
jorie?  " 

Once  in  a  great  while,  since  she  had  done  that  deed 
to  his  brother,  John  Whitmarsh  called  the  girl  by  that 
name.  It  meant  a  great  deal  with  him. 

He  never  either  talked  in  just  this  way,  with  anybody 
but  Miss  Carruthers ;  a  good-humored  satire  through  all, 
for  he  fancied  that  young  woman  slightly  romantic,  and 
that  her  style  and  habits  of  thought  were  somewhat 
better  fitted  to  the  sixteenth  than  the  nineteenth  century. 

Marjorie  looked  up,  her  face  shaken  with  feeling  ; 
"Ah,  Cousin  John,"  —  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  called  him  this,  —  u  you  talk  like  my  uncle  now." 

Very  seldom  it  was  that  Marjorie  alluded  to  her 
dead ;  but,  to-day,  sitting  in  the  sunshine,  the  very  air 
about  her  all  astir  with  the  soft  spring  scent  of  blossoms, 
the  glory  of  the  coming  summer  upon  the  hills,  old 
memories  had  been  crowding  upon  the  girl's  heart.  "  A 
day  like  this  makes  me  feel  as  though  he  were  alive 
again,  because  he  loved  it  so ;  he  used  to  say,  '  It  puts 
the  boy's  heart  back  into  me  again,  Marjorie,  —  the 
year's  very  sap  into  my  veins.'  " 

Since  she  had  been  under  his  roof,  Miss  Carruthers 
had  not  spoken  so  much  as  this  to  her  cousin's  husband 
of  her  uncle.  "The  year's  sap  in  your  veins!  The 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  163 

boy's  heart !  Ah  !  "  —  turning  to  his  brother,  —  "  ah, 
Ben,  those  were  the  very  words  you  said  to  me  as  we 
came  up  the  road  together." 

"You  did?"  turning  her  pleased,  surprised  eyes  on 
the  young  man.  "  It  has  seemed  as  though  I  heard  a 
voice  through  all  Eleanor's  reading,  going  over  with 
those  words  of  his;"  and  then  it  came  suddenly  upon 
her  that  she  should  never  hear  that  dear  voice  again,  as 
a  quick,  awful  consciousness  of  the  loss  of  our  dead  is 
borne  in  upon  our  souls  at  times.  Her  lips  trembled. 
She  could  get  no  farther.  The  sight  was  almost  more 
than  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  could  bear.  It  seemed  sud- 
denly to  open  depths  of  solitude  and  pain  in  the  soul  of 
the  proud,  beautiful  woman  before  him.  His  love,  too, 
gave  him  a  fine  insight  into  Marjorie's  ptates  of  mind ; 
and  this  day,  bringing  back  vast  freshets  of  sweet  and 
tender  memories  to  swing  through  her  thoughts,  gave  to 
Miss  Carruthers  a  mood  of  unusual,  clinging  softness. 
She  remembered  that  her  cousin  Eleanor  was  her  nearest 
kin  on  earth ;  and  the  people  about  her  and  the  cottage 
at  Tuxbury  seemed  a  little  more  like  home  and  house- 
hold than  they  had  ever  done  before. 

"It  is  curious."  answered  young  Whitmarsh,  "  to 
find  how  one  man's  experience  answers  to  another's.  It 
has  seemed  all  this  morning  as  though  the  very  blood  of 
my  boyhood  was  a-tingle  in  my  veins  once  more.  In 
fact,  I've  been  out  among  the  woods  trying  my  lungs  in 
shouting  and  my  strength  in  turning  summersaults,  — 
with  a  feeling,  too,  that  I  ought  to  be  setting  traps  for 
squirrels  and  peering  into  birds'  nests." 


164  TRE   MILLS   Of   TUXBTJRY. 

"Oh,  dear!"  laughed  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  gayly, 
"  what  wild  animals  boys  are  bj  nature  !  I  dread  the 
time  when  mine  takes  to  his  savage  phase,"  looking  at 
the  white,  dimpled  bit  of  humanity  that  was  playing  and 
crowing  over  some  colored  balls  at  her  feet. 

"  I  move,  for  this  one  afternoon,  that  we  all  turn 
into  boys  and  girls,  or,  to  repeat  you,  my  dear,"  turn- 
ing to  his  wife,  "  take  to  the  savage  phase,"  said  Mr. 
Whitmarsh. 

"  0  John,  that  will  be  delightful;  but  how  shall  we 
accomplish  it  ?  " 

"Easily  enough.  Ben  and  I  will  drive  you  all 
around  to  Moose  Lake,  and  we  will  take  a  sail  when  we 
get  there:  and  I  will  leave  mills  and  mountain  and 
mines,  for  one  blessed  half  day,  to  the  moon." 

"  Ben,  Marjorie,  of  course  you  will  all  go,  and  find 
the  Alps  in  the  rocks,  and  some  charming  morsel  of 
Switzerland  in  our  poor  little  green  bowl  of  a  lake?  " 
said  the  lady,  with  her  usual  animation. 

Nobody  could  raise  an  objection  with  that  sky  and 
air,  and  the  project  was  all  matured  in  a  few  mo- 
ments; but  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Ben 
Whitmarsh  was  humming  poor  Burns'  ditty  :  — 

"  The  best-laid  plans  of  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  aglee," 

for  a  telegram  had  been  brought  to  Mr.  Whitmarsh, 
which  shook  down  all  their  pretty  gypsy  programme  in 
a  twinkling. 

Some    relatives    of    Mrs.    Whitmarsh,    on    a   flying 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  165 

journey  to  Canada,  had  concluded  to  take  Tuxbury  in 
their  route,  stopping  at  the  latter  place  for  a  day. 
They  would  reach  the  depot,  six  miles  off,  by  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon.  Of  course  there  was  no  help  for  it. 
The  gentleman  and  lady  must  ride  over  to  receive  their 
friends,  and,  after  a  hurried  dinner,  the  carriage  was 
driven  around  to  the  door. 

Just  as  they  were  on  the  point  of  starting,  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh  turned  to  her  brother-in-law  and  her  cousin,  who 
had  come  to  the  door  to  see  them  off.  "  It  is  thoroughly 
aggravating,"  she  said,  with  a  dubious  face.  "  Of 
course  I  shall  be  delighted  to  see  these  people  ;  but  if  the 
Fates  had  only  pushed  their  visit  into  to-morrow  after- 
noon, we  could  have  had  our  drive  and  sail  also." 

"As  for  me,  you  behold  the  most  inconsolable  of 
men,"  added  Benjamin  Whitmarsh;  and  there  was  a 
good  deal  more  of  truth  than  poetry  in  what  he  said,  for 
what  would  such  an  afternoon  even  as  that  May  one  be, 
emptied  of  the  light  and  color  of  Marjorie  Carruthers' 
society  ? 

"  I  am  as  heart-broken,"  added  that  young  lady,  "  as  a 
girl  who  was  to  be  queen  of  the  May,  and  wear  a  crown 
of  flowers,  and  who  opens  her  eyes  in  the  morning  to 
find  all  her  pleasures  buried  up  in  a  snow-storm." 

"Just  turn  philosophers  now,  and  make  the  most  of 
your  afternoon  without  us." 

"  Good  luck  to  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Whitmarsh;  and  he 
lifted  his  hat  and  drove  off,  leaving  the  man  and  woman 
standing  by  the  gate  together. 


166  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

"You  have  heard  what  John  said,  Miss  Carruthers?" 
turning  to  her.  "  Shall  we  take  his  advice?  " 

The  girl  drew  a  deep  breath.  That  hankering  for 
woods  and  fields,  for  all  the  great,  varied  life  of  nature, 
which  was  in  the  blood  of  Marjorie  Carruthers,  as  it  is 
in  an  Indian's  or  a  gypsy's,  in  birds  and  animals,  —  a 
hankering  which  her  previous  education  had  developed 
and  cultured,  — was  alive  within  her  now. 

Yet,  of  late,  she  had  striven  more  or  less  to  avoid 
young  Whitmarsh ;  and  she  paused  and  half  drew  back 
at  the  idea  of  starting  off  all  alone  for  an  afternoon 
adventure  with  this  young  fellow;  not  so  much  as 
"baby"  betwixt  them,  that  "ball  of  dimpled,  chubby 
sweetness,"  to  quote  one  of  her  expressions,  being  just 
now  deep  in  his  noon  nap  in  the  cradle  upstairs. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  watching  the  girl's  face,  saw 
the  doubt  in  it,  —  the  hunger,  too.  There  were  in  him 
some  forces  of  will,  some  strong  personal  magnetisms, 
which  make  the  men  or  women  who  possess  them  a 
power  for  good  or  for  evil  among  their  kind. 

"  Miss  Carruthers,  I  see  plainly  you  are  at  a  loss  for 
any  good  reason  why  you  should  stay  at  home.  It  is 
not  I,  but  the  afternoon  commands  you.  Go  and  get 
ready." 

She  looked  up  in  his  face,  half  surprised,  half  curi- 
ous. It  was  a  face  that  never  repelled  the  fine  instincts 
of  man  or  woman.  "I  believe  I  will  go,  Mr.  Whit- 
marsh," said  Marjorie  Carruthers,  with  a  smile  clearing 
up  the  doubt  in  her  eyes. 

Afterward  there  was  a  little  talk  as  to  the  direction  of 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY.  167 

their  ramble,  the  matter  soon  settling  itself  into  a  walk  to 
a  gorge  among  the  hills,  some  three  miles  off,  the  road 
steep  and  hilly  for  a  drive,  but  lonely,  wild,  and  pic- 
turesque to  the  last  degree. 

In  a  few  minutes  Miss  Carruthers  came  downstairs 
in  a  simple,  becoming  costume  of  browns  and  greens, 
which  her  uncle  used  to  declare  made  her  look  like 
a  wood-naiad;  but  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  thought  of 
pictures  and  statues  of  Greek  goddesses,  and  stuff  of 
that  sort,  as  the  lady  met  him  on  the  veranda. 

The  walk  which  followed  was,  I  suppose,  to  this  man 
and  woman  something  which  it  could  be  to  very  few 
people  in  the  world.  You  must  remember,  in  the  first 
place,  just  what  they  were  with  their  singularly  rich 
sympathies  for  all  the  moods  of  Nature,  for  all  the 
glories  of  her  color,  the  grandeur  of  her  forms. 

You  must  bear  in  mind,  too,  the  afternoon,  —  the  soft, 
golden  air  pervaded  with  moist,  sprouting,  blossomy 
scents  of  the  May,  the  radiant  exultation  of  that  life 
which  had  raised  the  Year  once  more  out  of  her  winter 
of  death,  and  clothed  her  in  green  garments,  with  the 
song  of  waters  and  the  singing  of  birds. 

There  was  rough  climbing  over  the  rocks  and  broken 
roads,  but  it  only  brought  a  more  vivid  glow  of  enjoy- 
ment into  Miss  Carruthers'  face,  as  the  two  laughed  and 
jested ;  and  memories  of  Wales  and  of  days  on  the  Rhine 
and  in  the  valleys  of  Switzerland  crowded  back  upon 
them  ;  and  they  told  stories,  or  repeated  fragments  of 
rhymes,  or  lapsed  into  happy  silences  that  brimmed  over 
the  hours  of  that  afternoon. 


168  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXEURT. 

They  reached  at  last  the  gorge  in  the  hills,  —  one  of 
those  spots  which  has  been  waiting  for  its  artists  since 
the  dawn  of  creation.  The  gloom  of  the  shadows,  the 
masses  of  color,  the  cool,  delicious  stillness,  through 
which  shivered  occasionally  the  breath  of  the  wind 
among  the  pines,  or  the  shout  of  the  water  as  it  flashed 
over  the  bald,  steep  rock  and  dropped,  a  white,  shining 
heap,  into  the  stream  below,  the  glimpses  of  golden  light 
on  the  broad  slopes  of  meadows  far  beneath,  were,  to 
quote  Marjorie  Carruthers'  enthusiastic  encomium, 
"  worth  climbing  three  hundred  miles,  instead  of  three, 
to  behold." 

The  two  drank  it  in  to  the  full,  sitting  there  under  the 
cool  shadows,  in  the  green  silences,  for  at  least  a  couple 
of  hours.  That  whole  afternoon  would  come  back  to 
their  memories  long  afterward,  like  a  vision  seen  in  a 
dream,  with  something  of  the  bright,  misty  indistinct- 
ness of  a  dream  too. 

But  something  finished  up  the  afternoon  at  last  with 
sharp,  hard  lines  enough.  It  happened  on  their  return 
home,  and  when  they  were  within  less  than  a  mile  of  the 
house. 

The  road  had  been  torn  and  gullied  with  spring  rains, 
and  they  had  had  a  scrambling  time  of  it,  for  some  dis- 
tance, leaping  across  ruts  and  ditches;  and  more  than 
once  Miss  Carruthers  had  required  the  aid  of  both 
young  Whitmarsh's  hands  in  springing  from  one  point  to 
another. 

That  it  was  what  a  boy  would  call  "  real  fun  "  to  her, 


THE   MILLS    OF   TVXBVRY.  169 

nobody  could  doubt  who  heard  the  clear,  happy  ring  of 
her  laugh  over  each  vanquished  difficulty. 

It  was  precisely  at  the  wrong  moment,  however,  thai 
a  squad  of  workmen,  going  home  from  their  day's  toil  ai 
the  tunnelling,  came  upon  the  young  man  and  woman. 

The  two  had  come  on  a  gully  a  little  broader  than 
any  they  had  yet  crossed,  and  Marjorie  was  surveying 
the  gap  rather  dubiously,  when  her  cavalier,  in  his 
prompt  fashion,  solved  the  problem  by  taking  the  young 
woman  in  his  arms  and  setting  her  down  on  the  other 
side,  a  good  deal  flushed,  amused,  and  excited. 

The  squad  of  workmen.  —  not  more  than  a  dozen  in 
all,  —  turning  suddenly  into  the  road,  witnessed  the 
act. 

There  were  reasons  enough  why  the  grimed,  stolid 
faces  should  stare  with  a  good-natured  curiosity  at  the 
two.  Marjorie  Carruthers  drew  herself  up  haughtily  as 
an  insulted  queen  while  the  heavy,  slouching  figures 
passed  by. 

The  talk  at  the  Mill  rushed  back  on  Miss  Carruthers 
like  an  ugly  blast  of  east  wind.  She  listened  nervously 
conscious,  lest  something  of  the  kind  should  be  renewed 
now ;  and,  alas  !  she  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 

"That  chap  seems  comin'  up  to  the  scratch  like  a 
real  lover,  as  he  ought  to.  Didn't  I  tell  you,  Pete  ?  " 
and  a  hoarse  laugh  followed  this  coarse  attempt  at  wit, 
and  it  rasped  and  grated  across  the  strung  nerves  of 
Marjorie  Carruthers. 

The  man,  walking  by  her  side,  had  not  overheard  one 
word  of  all  this.  The  typical  lover  is,  you  know,  a 


170  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY. 

proverbially  absent  creature  ;  and  though  young  Whit- 
marsh  usually  had  eyes  and  ears  for  whatsoever  was  going 
on  about  him,  the  talk  of  the  hands  at  this  juncture  had 
quite  escaped  him. 

But  he  did  observe  the  change  which  came  "suddenly 
upon  Miss  Carruthers ;  he  was  acquainted  by  this  time 
with  her  morbid  sensitiveness  of  temperament,  and 
though  he  regarded  it  as  a  weakness,  — for  he  by  no 
means  thought  the  young  lady  of  his  love  faultless,  — 
still  he  could  have  forgiven  far  greater  blemishes  than 
this  in  Marjorie  Carruthers. 

"  You  arc  annoyed  by  the  rudeness  of  those  men," 
seeing  the  sudden  gloom  in  her  face.  ' '  But  you  must 
remember  the  curiosity  has  its  rise  in  a  feeling  which 
does  them  credit.  One  night  made  you  a  heroine  for- 
ever, even  in  the  eyes  of  those  coarse  workmen,  Miss 
Carruthers." 

Marjorie  did  not  stop  to  weigh  these  words.  She  was 
all  alive  and  quivering  with  a  sense  of  insult.  Had  it 
been  otherwise,  she  would  have  perceived  from  his 
speech  that  young  Whitmarsh  had  not  overheard  the 
workmen.  But  her  pride  on  fire,  with  a  blind,  desperate 
impulse  to  answer  the  thought  she  fancied  at  work  with 
her  companion,  Marjorie  replied,  drawing  herself  up 
frigidly  enough  to  collapse  an  ordinary  mortal :  "I  sup- 
pose they  have  not  sense  enough  to  suspect  that  I  did  for 
you,  Mr.  Whitmarsh,  precisely  what  I  should  for  any 
wilted  dog  who  happened  to  be  laid  before  me  in  just 
your  plight ;  but  I  did  not  anticipate  that  I  should,  in 
consequence,  have  the  honor  henceforward  to  be  a  public 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBUItY.  171 

curiosity,  and  be  gaped  at  by  clowns  and  clodhoppers, 
every  time  I  showed  my  face  outside  the  house." 

Young  Whitmarsh  was  for  the  moment  confounded  by 
this  speech,  —  one  that  was  simply  insolent,  heartless, 
cruel  for  any  woman  to  make,  under  the  circumstances ; 
and  Marjorie's  irony  had  never  condescended  to  be  all 
these  before. 

In  a  moment,  however,  the  man  recovered  himself, 
and  his  reply  at  once  disarmed  Miss  Carruthers,  showed 
her  the  essential  hardness  and  meanness  of  her  remark, 
and  put  that  young  woman  to  shame,  as  she  thoroughly 
deserved  to  be. 

' '  But  even  the  fact  that  you  regretted  your  own  act, 
Miss  Carruthers,  finding  its  consequences  so  unpleasant, 
could  not  make  the  dog  unmindful  that  he  once  owed  his 
life  to  you,  nor  obliterate  the  grateful  sense  with  which 
he  must  always  remember  a  deed  that  would  forever 
leave  him  your  debtor." 

Ben  Whitmarsh  had  his  revenge  at  that  moment,  Mar- 
jorie  thought,  —  all  the  finer  because  he  had  not  for- 
gotten that  he  was  a  gentleman,  even  under  so  strong  a 
temptation  as  she  had  offered  him. 

What  if  she  had  been  too  hasty,  after  all,  and  he 
had  not  overheard  one  word  of  that  absurd  talk  which 
had  so  maddened  her  ?  She  walked  on  silently  by  the 
man's  side,  in  a  tumult  of  mortification  and  remorse, 
until  the  houses  came  in  sight.  Then  Marjorie, 
with  a  last  struggle,  turned  suddenly  to  young  Whit- 
marsh :  — 

"  Can  you  forgive   me  for  what  I  said   to  you,  Mr. 


172  THE   MILLS   OF   TUXBURT. 

Whitmarsh  ?  I  shall  not  blame  you  if  you  refuse,  for 
it  seems  to  me  unpardonable.  But  you  cannot  think 
worse  of  the  words  than  I  do  now  of  their  insolence  and 
cruelty.  Some  talk  of  those  men,  which  I  think  you 
did  not  hear,  drove  me  quite  furious  for  the  moment." 

"  No,  I  did  not  hear  it.  But,  if  you  speak  of  forgive- 
ness, —  although  that  seems  hardly  a  fitting  word  between 
you  and  me,  Miss  Carruthers,  —  I  had  done  that  before 
you  asked  me." 

"I  did  not  deserve  it;  "  and  she  gave  him  both  her 
hands  now,  just  as,  I  verily  believe,  only  Marjorie 
Carruthers  could  do  that  thing:  "You  are  very  gen- 
erous, Mr.  Whitmarsh." 

"Generous  to  you  —  "  He  broke  off  therewith  a 
great  effort,  thinking  to  himself,  "  If  you  add  another 
word  now,  you  will  make  an  egregious  fool  of  yourself, 
Ben." 

Marjorie  misinterpreted  his  words,  fancying  he  meant 
that  he  could  never  be  generous  to  her  because  of  the 
debt  betwixt  them. 

Half  an  hour  later,  in  her  own  room,  she  said  to  her- 
self, "  Marjorie  Carruthers,  what  a  goose  you. have  been 
making  of  yourself  all  this  time  !  Benjamin  Whitmarsh 
has  no  more  notion  of  proposing  to  you  than  has  the 
man  in  the  moon  !  You've  kept  yourself  miserable,  and 
insulted  everybody  around  you,  over  the  foolish  gossip 
of  a  few  poor,  coarse,  ignorant  workmen ;  and,  worst  of 
all,  you've  made  a  rude,  brutal,  cruel  speech, — you, 
who  pride  yourself  on  your  grace  and  delicacy  and  good- 
breeding  !  If  the  man  himself,  whom  you  wantonly 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  173 

insulted,  was  generous  enough  to  pardon  you,  you  ought 
to  despise  yourself  for  the  rest  of  your  days." 

Miss  Carruthers  did  not  spare  herself.  At  the  core 
of  her  the  girl  loved  truth,  and  her  self-humiliation  was 
honest,  and  so  far  wholesome  that  it  made  a  softer, 
sweeter  woman  of  her  for  the  weeks  that  followed. 


174  THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THOSE  weeks  brought  the  family  at  Tuxbury  down 
into  the  heart  of  the  summer.  It  was  a  happy  time  for 
all  of  them.  Things  went  on  with  such  wonderful 
smoothness  now  betwixt  her  brother-in-law  and  her 
cousin  that  the  head  of  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  filled  once 
more  with  its  cabinet  of  pretty,  domestic  pictures. 

If  that  high-mettled  Marjorie  could  ever  be  tamed, 
ever  be  won  and  wedded  and  gathered  into  the  cherish- 
ing and  sweetness  of  home  and  love,  Ben  Whitmarsh 
was  the  man  to  accomplish  it,  reasoned  that  gentleman's 
sister-in-law. 

And  then,  despite  her  moods  and  tempers  and  faults, 
what  large  forces  of  tenderness  and  devotion  were  in  the 
girl !  What  a  wife  she  would  make  for  the  man  whom 
she  loved,  and  who.  out  of  his  own  great  tenderness, 
could  understand  and  have  a  large  patience  with  her ! 

Then  Ben  and  Marjorie  were  so  wonderfully  suited  to 
each  other  in  taste,  temperament,  character  !  It  would 
be  entirely  different  with  that  dear,  noble  John.  He 
was  ten  times  better  suited  with  his  "little  singing 
thrush  of  an  Eleanor,"  as  he  called  her,  "  who  could 
nestle  right  down  in  the  soft,  warm  side  of  his  heart, 
and  not  mind  any  of  the  angles  and  prejudices,  than  he 
could  be  with  that  magnificent  Miss  Carruthers." 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY.  175 

But  it  was  different  with  Ben.  He  would  want  a 
woman  of  a  different  sort,  —  a  woman  with  a  wide  circle 
of  thought,  feeling,  culture,  with  swift  insight  into,  and 
large  sympathies  with,  his  moods  and  tastes  and  studies. 

Every  man  after  his  own  kind.  Now,  Mrs.  Whit- 
marsh  firmly  believed  in  marriage,  — •  thought  the  man 
or  the  woman  who  missed  this,  missed  the  deepest  joy  of 
life  ;  still,  she  knew  Ben  and  Marjorie  well  enough  to 
know  that  with  them  marriage  must  be  that,  or  else  the 
keenest  misery,  the  heaviest  anguish,  which  time  could 
bring  them. 

But  the  lady  kept  her  own  counsel,  on  the  keen  watch 
all  the  while  for  those  straws  that  indicate  in  which 
quarter  the  wind  sets. 

The  household  was  full  of  life  and  bustle  these  days ; 
picnics,  sails,  drives,  horseback  rides  and  rambles 
making  the  foreground.  They  half-lived  out-doors,  these 
people,  among  their  picturesque  landscapes,  during  the 
delicious  summer  weather.  Marjorie  Carruthers  used  to 
affirm  that  they  might  as  well  thoroughly  break  with 
civilization  and  go  off  into  a  gypsy  encampment  at  once, 
for  their  attempts  to  combine  a  nomad  with  a  settled 
life  would  always  miscarry.  Individuals,  like  races, 
must  either  be  savage  or  civilized. 

Some  secret  antagonism  with  herself,  which  had  made 
Marjorie  so  moody  and  inflammable,  was  at  rest  now. 
The  summer  seemed  to  have  entered  into  her  just  as  it 
had  into  the  birds  and  the  flowers.  She  was  the  life  and 
color  of  the  household  in  doors  and  out. 

Young  Whitmarsh  and  she  were  together  now  half  the 


176  THE   MILLS   OF   TUXBVRT. 

time ;  their  talk,  their  jests,  their  whole  intimacy  acting 
like  a  fine  stimulant,  each  upon  the  thought  and  mind 
of  the  other.  Of  course,  they  disagreed  often,  but,  how- 
ever firmly  Marjorie  might  hold  her  ground  against 
argument  or  authority,  however  her  wit  might  dazzle  or 
her  humor  play  like  summer  lightning  around  their 
discussions,  her  irony  never  slashed,  her  heats  of  temper 
never  blazed  up  in  sudden  fire. 

Miss  Carruthers  had  told  herself  that  she  and  Ben 
Whitmarsh  were  friends.  They  had  a  right  to  be,  cer- 
tainly. As  for  lovers,  that,  of  course,  was  out  of  the 
question,  to  be  left  to  the  talk,  certainly,  of  ignorant 
work-hands,  who  could  have  no  possible  idea  of  the 
relations  which  might  exist  betwixt  a  cultivated  man  and 
woman  having  many  tastes  and  sympathies  in  common. 
She  would  never  degrade  the  man  nor  herself  by  the 
suspicion  that  he  would  ask  any  woman  to  be  his  wife 
because  of  any  debt  of  gratitude,  real  or  fancied,  that  he 
owed  her. 

So  Marjorie  settled  the  matter  in  her  own  thoughts, 
and  gave  herself  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  what  the 
summer  had  to  offer  her,  including  the  society  of  Ben 
Whitmarsh.  One  thing  was  certain,  —  she  was  happier 
than  she  ever  expected  to  be  after  that  awful  grief  of 
three  years  ago. 

All  this  time  there  was  more  or  less  company  at 
Tuxbury.  Friends  of  the  family,  on  their  journey  to 
the  White  Mountains,  the  Canadas,  the  Adirondacks, 
turned  aside  for  a  few  days  to  the  charming  retreat  at 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  Ill 

Tuxbury  ;  so  the  household  did  not  lack  for  any  element 
of  outside  life,  if  they  had  required  that. 

As  for  young  Whitmarsh,  if  he  was  each  day  a  little 
more  in  love  than  the  last,  who  can  blame  him  ? 

Just  think  what  this  Marjorie  Carruthers  was,  with 
her  beauty,  her  grace,  and,  what  was  more  than  these, 
the  wonderful,  subtle  magnetism  of  her  presence.  We 
all  know  faces  attractive,  even  beautiful  on  first  sight, 
which  grow  insipid,  if  nothing  worse,  on  farther  knowl- 
edge, and  homely  faces  which  grow  interesting  and 
lovely  with  intimacy. 

Marjorie  Carruthers'  beauty  was  not  her  chiefest 
power.  This  last  lay  in  eternal  forces  of  her  soul,  and, 
remembering  this,  you  can  have  some  idea  what  it  was 
to  live  in  her  charmed  atmosphere  as  Benjamin  Whit- 
marsh  did ;  yet  the  man's  will  held,  all  this  time,  the 
mastery  over  his  affections.  He  never,  by  word  or 
sign,  gave  Marjorie  to  suspect  that  she  was  more  to  him 
than  his  friend,  —  the  woman  who  had  saved  his  life 
and  this  was  the  secret  of  her  manner  toward  him,  other- 
wise he  would  never  have  known  her  so  well ;  he  could 
never  have  drawn  her  so  close  to  him  in  their  free  home 
intimacy. 

Yet,  for  all  this,  it  was  hard  on  the  fellow,  —  so  hard 
that  he  was  often  half  tempted  to  learn  his  fate  and  put 
all  at  stake  by  asking  Miss  Carruthers  to  be  his  wife. 

"If  she  refused  him,  well,  let  the  worst  come;" 
setting  his  jaws  together,  and  a  horizon  of  his  future, 
like  bare,  sandy,  lonesome  reaches  of  desert,  opening 
suddenly  before  him ;  "it  would  not  kill  him  :  he  was  a 


178  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

man,  and  would  not  die  for  the  love  of  a  woman,  who, 
whether  she  meant  it  or  not,  would  after  all  have 
dragged  him  back  to  life,  only  to  thrust  it  at  last, 
shrivelled,  worthless,  hack  in  his  hands." 

The  younger  brother  was  always  making  a  jest  of  his 
returning  to  business ;  but,  when  it  came  to  sober 
earnest,  the  elder  tabooed  the  matter  for  the  present. 

There  were  the  grounds,  he  said,  sufficient  to  keep 
even  Ben  out  of  mischief  for  one  summer.  The  boy 
must  get  sound  on  his  feet  again  before  there  was  any 
further  talk  of  business,  and  in  the  autumn  they  two 
would  take  a  week's  hunting  and  fishing  among  the 
Adirondacks. 

"The  grounds"  formed  a  principal  feature  in  the 
Tuxbury  life  that  summer.  There  were  walks  and 
drives  to  be  laid  out,  terraces  to  be  built,  mounds  to  be 
raised,  shrubberries  to  be  set  out,  all  of  which  was  left  in 
a  general  way  to  the  supervision  of  young  Whitmarsh 
and  the  ladies,  the  head  of  the  household  having,  at  this 
juncture,  as  great  a  business  pressure  as  he  could  well 
carry.  Eleanor  and  Marjorie  were  devoted  to  the 
flower-beds,  and  here  Ben  Whitmarsh  proved  a  valuable 
auxiliary.  Whether  it  was  working  with  garden-hoe  or 
rake  out-doors,  or  inside  reading  poetry  and  discussing 
art  and  ethnology,  or  other  equally  recondite  matters  of 
aesthetics  or  ethics,  the  young  man  and  woman  were 
constantly  thrown  in  each  other's  society. 

There  came  an  evening,  however,  when  Miss  Car- 
ruthers  was  left  alone  with  only  the  baby  and  the  ser- 
vants in  the  house  at  Tuxbury.  She  enjoyed  it ;  she 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY.  179 

had  her  moods  for  solitude,  and  there  had  been  an  un- 
usual descent  of  guests  during  the  last  week,  —  "  com- 
monplace, conventional  people,  whose  platitudes  half 
wearied,  half  irritated  her." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  gone  over  to  the  next 
town  to  dine  with  some  friends,  and  their  brother  had 
left  that  morning,  just  after  breakfast,  for  the  North,  on 
some  business. 

It  was  a  .beautiful  evening,  rounding  out  a  day  lus- 
cious with  the  heats  of  midsummer ;  through  the  still  air 
an  occasional  flutter  of  cool  winds;  overhead  a  full 
summer  moon,  lonely  and  bright  and  mournful  in  the 
midst  of  her  splendor  of  stars.  Marjorie  went  out  on  the 
veranda  and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  stillness,  enjoy- 
ing the  night  that  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a  trance 
over  its  own  beauty.  It  was  a  long,  long  time  since  she 
had  walked  the  veranda  like  this  in  the  evening,  —  so 
long  ago  that  it  seemed  she  had  lived  an  age  since  that 
event.  The  whole  time  came  back  on  her  now :  the 
wild,  solemn  gloom  of  the  evening,  the  black  muster 
of  clouds  overhead,  the  howl  of  the  winds  up  the 
valleys  ;  and  she  shivered  a  little  through  all  the  moist 
heat  of  that  midsummer  night,  as  the  raw  chill  of  the 
winter  evening  seemed  to  creep  along  her  veins  once 
more. 

Everything  comes  back  to  the  girl  now  with  a  won- 
derful distinctness.  She  looks  up  the  road,  half  expect- 
ing to  see  through  the  gathering  mists  the  group  of  fig- 
ures and  the  black,  covered  burden ;  the  lights  seem  to 
move  to  and  fro  again,  and  her  heart  stands  still  j  and 


180  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBUBT. 

the  men  are  at  the  gate  once  more,  and  the  torches  are 
flaring  red  on  their  white,  shocked  faces.  Marjorie 
shudders  and  wrings  her  hands,  for  the  whole  scene,  in 
all  its  awful,  vivid  life,  and  her  own  part  in  it,  crowd 
back  on  her  now. 

She  gazes  up  and  down  the  road,  full  of  the  gladness 
of  the  leaves  and  the  white  rapture  of  the  moonlight ;  but 
that  old  memory  has  taken  such  power  of  her  soul  that 
the  stillness  and  the  shining  half  fail  to  soothe  her. 

She  remembers  with  a  start  that  Ben  Whitmarsh  is 
absent  to-night ;  it  is  true  he  does  not  travel  with- 
out weapons  now ;  moreover,  one  or  two  of  the  foremen 
accompanied  him  on  his  trip ;  yet,  for  all  this,  she  feels 
uneasy ;  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  her  if  she  could 
hear  the  tramp  of  his  horse's  feet  up  the  still,  moonlit 
road. 

All  the  actors,  too,  in  that  terrible  drama  come  back  to 
her  now.  Dr.  Avery,  with  his  broad,  compact  figure, 
his  shrewd,  kindly  face,  and  his  mellow,  hearty  voice, 
which  puts  fresh  life  into  you.  She  has  not  seen  the 
old  man  much  of  late,  for  he  has  been  busy  with  his 
patients,  and  he  is  off  now  taking  a  breathing-spell  up 
among  the  Canada  woods  and  rivers. 

Then  her  thoughts  slip  away  to  Berry  Shumway's 
little,  bright,  honest  face,  and  a  smile  comes  into  Mar- 
jorie's,  remembering  her  first  meeting  with  the  factory- 
girl.  What  a  little  native  burst  of  feeling  that  was  ! 

By  a  very  natural  link  of  association,  too,  she  recalls 
that  brother  of  Berry's,  —  the  young  workman,  the  big, 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXSURY.  181 

slouching  figure,  and  the  strange  stare  in  the  light  blue 
eyes  when  they  met  hers  that  day  at  the  Furnace. 

Marjorie  has  meant  to  ride  over  to  the  settlement  and 
hunt  up  the  factory-girl ;  but  the  truth  is,  she  has  been 
so  busy  and  so  happy  of  late  that  she  has  not  troubled 
herself  about  any  of  her  plans.  Into  all  these  thoughts 
breaks  suddenly  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs ;  in  a  moment 
the  riders  come  in  sight,  three  of  them,  —  Ben  Whit- 
marsh  a  little  ahead  of  the  others.  They  separate  at 
the  Furnace,  and  the  young  man  dashes  up  the  road  and 
wheels  round  at  the  front  gate.  Marjorie,  without  a 
second  thought,  goes  down  to  meet  him,  and  he  catches 
sight  of  her  as  he  springs  off  his  horse. 

"0  Mr.  Whitmarsh,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  safely 
back  again !  "  says  Marjorie,  speaking  the  feeling  which 
is  uppermost  in  her  heart,  and  not  aware  how  earnestly 
she  speaks  it,  either. 

"Miss  Carruthers, — what,  are  you  alone  here?" 
giving  her  his  arm,  and  they  go  up  the  walk  together. 

"  Yes ;  I  persuaded  John  and  Eleanor  to  ride  over 
and  dine  with  the  Cornwalls.  They  have  been  invited 
to  no  purpose  so  often ;  and  then,  I  do  not  dislike  being 
alone  sometimes." 

' '  I  understand  that,  Miss  Carruthers.  What  a  glori- 
ous night  it  is  !  One  wishes  it  might  last  forever." 

"Forever?"  repeated  Marjorie,  half  doubtfully. 
"The  peace,  the  stillness,  the  splendor!  I  think  you 
are  right,  Mr.  Whitmarsh, —  forever  !  " 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  the  evening?"  he 
asked. 


182  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

"Walking  up  and  down  the  veranda,  and  thinking 
—  "  She  stopped  there  of  a  sudden. 

"  Thinking  what?  "  he  said. 

"  No;  I  had  rather  not  tell  you,"  she  replied,  in  a 
swift,  flurried  way. 

He  looked  up  in  her  face  ;  then  it  flashed  on  him  in  a 
moment.  He  had  been  told  she  was  walking  the  ve- 
randa on  that  night,  —  like  no  other  night  in  all  of  their 
lives,  to  him  and  to  her.  She  had  been  living  it  all 
over  in  the  stillness  and  solitude. 

It  shook  his  soul  to  know  this,  but  he  did  not  speak ; 
he  only  kept  her  arm,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  the 
veranda. 

ikit  Marjorie  was  as  certain  as  though  he  had  told  her, 
that  he  knew  where  her  thoughts  had  been.  After  a 
while  the  two  began  to  talk  about  commonplace  matters. 
Whitmarsh  gave  the  lady  some  account  of  his  trip  that 
day,  and  also  informed  her  that  he  should  have  to  run 
down  to  New  York  for  two  or  three  days  before  the 
week  was  out. 

The  journey  would  devolve  on  him,  as  John  could  not 
be  spared  from  Tuxbury  for  twenty-four  hours  until  the 
tunnelling  was  over. 

"It  is  quite  too  bad,"  said  Miss  Carruthers,  in  a 
voice  of  keen  disappointment.  "That  long,  tedious, 
dusty  trip  —  in  these  midsummer  heats,  too ;  besides  that, 
we  shall  not  be  able  to  get  on  at  all  without  you." 

Marjorie  Carruthers  was  not  precisely  aware  of  her 
manner  this  evening.  I  think  any  lover  would  have 
taken  some  hope  from  it.  The  truth  was,  the  memories 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  183 

which  had  been  at  work  with  her  had  wonderfully 
moved  her  heart,  and  following  straight  on  this,  the 
relief  of  seeing  young  Whitmarsh  return  quite  un- 
harmed, was  greater  than  she  suspected. 

Her  manner,  her  very  tones,  toward  him,  were  full  of 
some  interest,  some  subtle  sweetness  of  which  the  girl 
herself  was  quite  unconscious. 

Young  Whitmarsh  looked  up  in  the  lady's  face,  and 
its  beauty,  touched  and  enhanced  by  that  solemn  splen- 
dor of  moonlight,  worked  a  sudden  madness  in  his  heart 
and  brain.  His  passion  slipped  the  leash  which  his  will 
had  held  so  long.  "  Then  you  really  mean  it,  Miss 
Carruthers  ?  You  are  not  a  woman  to  tell  a  lie  for 
courtesy's  sake;  you  will  really  miss  me?  " 

The  evening  must  have  wrought  its  enchantment  with 
the  girl,  too,  —  taken  her  into  its  own  mood  of  solemn 
peace  and  joy,  —  for  ordinarily  a  speech  like  this  would 
have  startled  her,  but  it  did  nothing  of  the  kind  now. 

"I  shall  most  seriously  miss  you,  Mr.  Whitmarsh," 
answered  clearly  and  sweetly  the  voice  of  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers. 

He  stopped  their  walk  at  that  moment,  held  her  still 
and  looked  her  in  the  face  :  "  Then,  Marjorie,  give  me 
the  right  to  say  that  in  all  our  lives  to  come,  you  shall 
miss  nothing  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  give  you  !  " 

Marjorie  stood  still,  much  like  one  stunned  by  a  blow. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Whitmarsh?"  she  asked, 
slowly. 

UI  mean,  Marjorie  Carruthers,  that  I  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife ;  that  I  offer  you  the  life  you  once  gave  back  to 


184  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 

me,  and  which  seems  worthless  to  me  now,  unless  I  may 
have  the  joy  of  devoting  to  you  whatever  it  is,  or  what- 
ever it  may  be." 

The  words  thrilled  through  the  girl's  soul  as  no 
human  words  had  ever  done,  with  a  power  of  unutterable 
tenderness. 

The  exultation,  the  rapture,  the  sweetness,  of  one  soli- 
tary moment,  as  that  speech  entered  her  heart,  shook  and 
swayed  the  tall,  graceful  woman  as  reeds  by  river  banks 
are  swayed  by  slow  winds ;  but  into  all  this  the  next 
thought  broke  like  crashes  of  thunder.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  one  moment,  while  a  swift  spasm  of 
agony  passed  over  her,  and  then  Marjorie  Carruthers 
drew  herself  up,  and,  white  and  hard  and  frozen,  looked 
into  the  face  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  185 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  No,  I  will  not  be  jour  wife,  Benjamin  Whit- 
marsh!  " 

The  words  —  dropping  in  a  slow  sternness  from  the 
girl's  lips  —  chilled  one  in  the  warm  summer  evening 
like  hard,  cold  drops  of  hail  falling  into  the  heat  of  a 
summer  day. 

It  seemed  as  though  a  flaming  sword,  shutting  him 
out  from  Paradise,  had  gleamed  suddenly  before  the 
man's  eyes ;  yet  he  did  not  blanch.  They  two  stood 
still  looking  into  each  other's  faces,  and  the  hush  and 
the  radiance  of  the  moonlight  were  upon  them  both. 

' '  Have  you  no  more  to  say  to  me  than  that,  Marjorie 
Carruthers  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  think  that  any  man  would 
have  a  right  to  ask  you  why  you  answered  him  just  like 
this." 

He  had  taken  his  fate  from  her  lips  manfully;  but 
through  all  the  storm  within,  whose  awful  raging  was 
only  measured  by  her  white,  frozen  calmness,  Marjorie 
yet  felt  that  what  he  spoke  was  true,  —  that  having  said 
to  her  what  he  had,  she  owed  him,  as  woman  to  man, 
some  further  answer. 

"I  thought  you  knew  it  —  I  supposed  my  whole 
manner  had  told  you  that.  It  was  cruel  to  misinterpret 
me  so;  "  her  calmness  giving  way  now,  her  words  break- 


186  THE  MILLS   OF  TDXBURY. 

ing  out  in  a  passionate  incoherence,  in  singular  contrast 
with  her  coldness  of  a  few  moments  before.  She  turned 
away  from  him. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  followed  her.  To  him  it  was  a 
matter  of  life  or  death.  With  his  soft,  strong  hand  he 
took  hold  -of  her  shoulder  and  turned  her  around  to 
him:  "  Marjorie,"  — until  to-night  he  had  never  called 
her  this,  —  ' '  where  have  I  misinterpreted  you ;  how 
have  I  been  cruel  to  you?"  His  face  and  voice  that 
of  a  man  in  deadly  earnest,  he  compelled  her  to  answer 
him. 

She  walked  on  in  a  rapid,  nervous  way,  which  showed 
she  was  moved  to  the  centre :  "  To  suppose  that  my 
manner  could  mean  more  to  you  than  what  it  was,  —  the 
trust  and  confidence  of  a  friend  !  You  have  taught  me 
at  last,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  what  a  fool  I  have  made 
of  myself;  "  stopping  then  a  moment,  and  glaring  on 
him  with  the  angry  splendor  of  her  eyes. 

"  A  fool  of  yourself,  Marjorie  Carruthers?"  keeping 
pace  with  her  rapid  walk  up  and  down  the  veranda,  and 
only  anxious  to  shield  her  from  some  bitterness  of  self- 
contempt,  which  yet  was  a  mystery  to  him. 

"Whatever  my  presumption  may  seem  to  you,  I 
absolve  you  now  and  ever  from  encouraging  it  by  word 
or  look."  Her  hasty  steps  slackened  a  little,  and  she 
held  her  breath  back  to  listen. 

"You  are  not  the  woman,  I  take  it,  to  do  that  to 
living  man,  and  I  —  "  His  voice  paused  here,  and  shook 
a  little,  as  reeds  by  water-courses  do,  with  faint  tremors 
of  wind  among  them.  "  I  have  said  to  you  what  I  have 


THE   MILLS   OF   TUXBURY.  187 

to-night,  because  I  had  no  power  to  help  it,  because  my 
soul  must  speak  these  words  to  yours,  and  because, 
scornfully  and  bitterly  as  you  have  rejected  me,  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers,  I  think  I  shall  be  glad  to  the  day  of 
my  death  that  I  made  you  this  offer." 

There  was  every  chance  of  their  misapprehending 
each  other.  In  her  blind  pride,  Marjorie  would  be  apt 
to  clutch  at  a  wrong  meaning,  and  how  could  the  man 
divine  what  was  going  on  in  the  girl's  soul?  She 
stopped  again,  and  fronted  him  now  ;  if  a  true  manli- 
ness had  not  lain  at  the  bottom  of  him,  it  seemed  that 
the  scorn  which  flashed  into  her  beautiful  white  face 
must  have  withered  him.  "  You  have  done  your  duty, 
Mr.  Whitmarsh,"  she  said.  "I  have  answered  you;  I 
hope  it  will  afford  ample  satisfaction  for  the  rest  of  your 
life  to  remember  this." 

"And  this  is  all  your  answer,  Marjorie  Carruthers? 
Nothing  I  can  say  can  help  my  case  ?  "  There  was  a 
little  sharp  throb  of  pain  at  the  end  of  these  words,  but 
he  smothered  it  and  drew  himself  up  to  face  the  truth, 
whatever  that  might  be.  "I  think  you  know  I  am  not 
a  man  to  thrust  myself  on  any  reluctant  woman ;  only  I 
want  to  know  your  answer  is  final,  —  that  there  is  no 
hope  for  me ;  that  no  long  waiting  and  no  devotion  on 
my  part  can  win  your  love  ?  " 

Of  a  sudden  she  stopped  again.  You  must  remember 
that  her  veins  were  on  fire,  that  she  was  quivering  with 
pride  and  excitement,  and  some  strange  terror  under  all, 
lest  the  man  by  her  side  should  reach  some  knowledge  of 


188  THE   MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY. 

the  agony  of  pain  which  was  tearing  her  heart  at  that 
moment. 

"  My  answer  is  final,"  fronting  him  with  her  white, 
motionless  face  again.  "  Not  all  the  world  could  tempt 
me  to  be  your  wife,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh.  If  it  came 
to  deciding  between  death  and  marrying  you  this  hour, 
and  the  block  was  made  ready  out  yonder  and  the 
headsman  waited,  I  would  go  down  quietly  and  tell  him 
to  do  his  work,  so  help  me  God  !  " 

She  believed  she  was  telling  the  truth  then.  You 
could  not  have  doubted  that,  seeing  her  face. 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  looked  at  it  a  moment,  and 
something  came  into  his  eyes  that  was  like  the  love  and 
grief  with  which  we  look  for  the  last  time  on  dead  faces. 
But  he  was  calm  as  herself.  Then  he  took  her  hands  in 
his.  They  were  eold  and  numb,  and  seemed  to  strike  a 
chill  through  him.  "I  shall  never  ask  you  again. 
Good-by,  Marjorie." 

Then  he  turned  and  left  her  standing  there,  and  she 
went  upstairs,  and  his  last  words  rang  in  her  ears  and 
down  into  her  heart.  It  seemed  that  "Good-by,  Mar- 
jorie. "  with  which  he  had  quitted  her,  might  have  been 
spoken  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold  by  one  who  was  looking 
his  last  on  the  pleasant  sunshine  and  the  green  earth, 
and  going  away  from  its  life  and  hope  and  joy.  She 
sank  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window,  with  a  worn,  tired 
look  in  her  frozen  face,  that  was  pitiful  to  see.  She 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hand  wearily  a  moment,  but  her 
thoughts,  whatever  they  were,  proved  too  much  for  her. 
She  flung  them  away  with  an  angry  gesture  and  started 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  189 

to  her  feet:  "To  think  that  he  should  have  dared  to 
ask  me  to  be  his  wife,  —  fancied  he  could  pay  his  debt 
in  that  way  !  If  I  loved  you/' — her  eyes  blazing  as 
she  paced  the  room,  as  though  they  confronted  some  ter- 
rible phantom,  —  if  I  loved  you  with  my  whole  soul 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  I  would  be  too  truly  your  friend 
to  let  you  sacrifice  yourself  to  pay  your  debt ;  yet  you 
gave  the  best  you  had,  —  the  best ;  it  was  not  your 
fault,"  a  sudden  softness  coming  into  her  face,  and  she 
went  and  stood  by  the  window  and  gazed  up  at  the  stars, 
and  at  the  great,  red  summer  moon  swimming  among 
them. 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  quenched  their  hot 
splendor.  Her  mouth  shook  out  of  all  its  pride  into 
some  sharp  pain.  "  Oh,  my  life,  my  life  !  "  she  moaned 
in  a  whisper.  "  What  shall  I  do  with  it?  If  the  axe 
had  been  ready  and  the  headsman  stood  there,  God 
knows  I  should  not  have  been  sorry." 

After  this,  a  great  change  came  over  Marjorie  Carru- 
thers,  — a  change  that  was  like  the  going  down  of  still, 
radiant  September  days  into  the  cold  and  darkness  of 
equinoctial  storms.  Whatever  there  had  been  singular 
and  aggravating  in  her  moods  before,  they  were  ten 
times  worse  now ;  even  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  to  admit 
that,  to  herself  at  least. 

It  was  impossible  to  please  the  creature ;  all  her  an- 
tagonisms seemed  awake  now.  She  was  restive,  misera- 
ble, sullen,  aggravating,  as  the  mood  might  be,  and  led 
poor  Eleanor  a  hard  life  of  it,  for  Marjorie  had  that 
magnetic  quality  which  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to 


190  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

the  very  atmosphere  about  her.  Most  people  could  not 
live  in  them  without  being  infected  by  'her  moods ;  she 
made  a  very  morning  glow  and  radiance  of  gladness, 
which  acted  like  sunlight  and  electricity  on  others,  or 
her  restless,  discordant  frames  seemed  to  have  a  fatal 
power  of  infecting  everybody  who  came  within  their 
sphere.  Yet,  with  all  there  was  to  regret  in  Marjorie 
Carruthers,  her  faults  were  not  of  the  mean,  commonplace 
type.  I  hope  she  is  clear  enough  by  this  time  for  you 
to  recognize  that  fact.  There  was  none  of  that  pee- 
vish fretfulness  which  affects  one  like  the  perpetual 
drizzle  of  some  days,  that  do  not  seem  to  possess  force 
enough  to  concentrate  themselves  into  a  downright  rain. 

There  was  something  of  a  half-tamed,  wild  creature 
about  Marjorie  at  this  time.  She  did  not  seem  at  ease 
anywhere.  The  flowers  outside  and  the  books  within 
failed  of  their  old  charm. 

She  was  never  still  five  minutes ;  complaining  some- 
times of  fatigue  and  nervousness;  and  she  grew  abso- 
lutely regardless  of  her  health,  going  off  on  long  walks 
in  early  damps  and  late  dews,  keeping  Mrs.  Whitmarsh 
on  the  constant  watch,  following  her  to  the  door  and  the 
gate  with  shawls  and  wrappings,  for  which  she  very  likely 
got  small  thanks,  although  Marjorie  would  usually  con- 
descend to  stand  passively  enough  while  her  cousin 
enveloped  her,  and  sometimes  a  little  smile  would  come 
into  the  white  weariness  of  her  face,  and  she  would 
say,  "  0  Eleanor,  what's  the  use  ?  —  I'm  not  worth  the 
trouble." 

The  smile  and  the  tones  always  touched  the  heart  of 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  191 

Eleanor  Whitmarsh :  "  Marjorie,  don't  talk  like  that. 
You  hurt  me." 

Then  the  lady  would  go  into  the  house  and  watch  the 
girl  going  up  the  road,  —  a  tall,  graceful,  delicate  figure 
cut  out  sharply  against  the  horizon.  "  Poor  Mar- 
jorie !  "  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  would  go  over  and  over  to 
herself,  thinking  of  her  cousin's  look,  and  a  half-con- 
scious dread  would  sometimes  haunt  her  that  Marjorie 
might  be  tempted  to  do  some  harm  to  herself. 

As  for  John  Whitmarsh,  the  man's  forbearance  with 
Miss  Carruthers'  whims  and  freaks  was  wonderful.  It 
did  not  at  this  juncture  seem  possible  to  please  her,  and 
after  a  while  Eleanor  wisely  gave  up  the  attempt,  and 
let  matters  take  care  of  themselves. 

Meanwhile,  Ben  Whitmarsh  had  gone  to  New  York, 
and  the  very  night  on  which  his  return  was  looked  for 
at  Tuxbury,  there  came  a  telegram,  saying  he  should 
join  a  party  of  friends  at  the  sea-shore  for  the  next 
week  or  two. 

His  sister-in-law  was  plunged  quite  in  despair  about 
ever  bringing  the  pretty  little  romance  on  which  her 
heart  had  so  long  been  set  to  its  legitimate  conclusions 
of  bridal  favors  and  honeymoon. 

One  morning,  it  happened  rather  unusually  that  the 
two  ladies  were  alone  together  :  Marjorie  was  in  one  of 
her  worst  moods.  Even  the  two  things  that  never 
seemed  to  rasp  her,  —  the  baby  and  the  shepherd  dog,  a 
huge,  shaggy,  mottled  creature,  with  the  devotion  of  his 
species,  —  had  been  conscious  that  something  was  wrong. 

"Baby"  sat  on  the  floor  in  the  midst  of  his  toys, 


192  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

and  stared  at  Aunt  Madge  with  his  large,  wondering 
eyes,  and  the  dog  crept  to  her  feet  and  gazed  up  at  the 
beautiful,  proud  face  with  some  kind  of  dumb  human 
pity  in  his  look.  Marjorie  had  taken  an  easy-chair,  and 
leaned  her  cheek  against  it,  so  that  her  profile  was 
struck  out  sharply  toward  her  cousin. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  saw  how  thin  it  had  grown'  of  late. 
Marjorie  had  not  eaten  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow  alive. 
The  girl  was  not  well,  her  cousin  thought  with  keen 
alarm  and  pity.  The  trouble  within,  whatever  it  was, 
was  wearing  on  her  nerves  and  life,  and  went  deeper 
than  one  of  her  ordinary  tempestuous  moods,  which  were 
certain  to  clear  up  in  a  little  while.  What  tumult  and 
unhappiness  were  within,  that  brought  out  that  weary, 
unhappy  look  on  the  girl's  face  ? 

It  was  dangerous  'ground  in  times  like  these  to 
approach  Marjorie  with  argument  or  persuasion.  The 
proud,  sensitive  nature  was  much  like  some  thorough- 
bred animal  who  starts  and  plunges  at  a  word  ;  but  as 
Eleanor  gazed  the  question  burst  out  of  her  lips,  half  in 
pity,  half  in  despair,  "Marjorie,  what  does  possess 
you?" 

The  girl  started  a  little  and  turned  around.  She  was 
silent  a  moment,  looking  at  her  cousin  with  some  hope- 
lessness in  her  face ;  then  she  answered  wearily :  "I 
don't  know,  Eleanor,  — the  devil,  I  suspect." 

"  Sometimes  I  fear  he  does,  Marjorie." 

There  was  a  little  silence  between  the  two  after  this ; 
then  Marjorie  rose  up  and  walked  across  the  room,  and  the 
dog  got  up,  and  shook  his  mottled  hide  and  followed  her ; 


THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBVRY.  193 

she  stopped  before  her  cousin :  "  You've  been  very 
patient  with  me,  Eleanor;  I've  seen  it  all  along  ;  but  I 
have  no  right  to  try  you  like  this.  I  ought  to  go 
away."  She  spoke  softly  and  mournfully,  and  the  pain 
and  the  weariness  did  not  leave  her  face. 

"But  where  would  you  go,  Marjorie?  I  thought 
this  was  more  to  you  like  home  than  any  place  ;  "  her 
tone  full  of  surprise  and  pain. 

"  I  thought  so  too,  Eleanor;  but  the  sting  has  got  into 
my  blood  again.  I  don't  know  what  it  means  —  what 
possesses  me  —  as  you  say ;  but  I  have  no  right  to  make 
you  unhappy,  or  John  either.  I  seem  to  have  a  fatal 
gift  of  impressing  others  with  my  states  of  mind,  when  I 
would  not.  There  is  at  least  so  much  grace  in  me  that 
I  am  sorry  for  that." 

"  But,  child,  where  will  you  go  ?  You  are  not  capa- 
ble of  taking  care  of  yourself.  In  your  delicate  health, 
too  !  The  world  is  a  vast,  cold,  rattling  place,  Marjorie, 
although  it  may  be  very  ready  to  heap  praises  on  your 
head.  You  will  want  even  such  love  as  we  have  in  the 
little  cottage  at  Tuxbury  to  ofier  you." 

It  seemed  as  though  those  words  touched  some  quiver- 
ing nerve  in  the  girl's  soul,  for  Marjorie  winced  and 
caught  her  breath.  Then  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes 
as  they  were  already  in  her  cousin's.  She  leaned  over 
and  kissed  the  lady  with  a  sudden  tenderness.  "How 
good  you  are,  Eleanor !  "  and,  hearing  the  words,  you 
would  not  have  doubted  that  they  came  from  the 
speaker's  heart. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  drew  the  girl  down  on  a  cricket  at 


194  THE   MILLS   OF 

her  feet,  and  smoothed  the  dark,  glossy  head  tenderly : 
"You  will  not  let  us  be  'good'  to  you,  Marjorie,  and 
now  you  are  talking  of  doing  the  cruellest  thing  of  all, — 
of  going  away  to  leave  us. ' ' 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  touched  and  soft :  "Do  you 
really  want  me  to  stay,  Eleanor  ?  What  good  have  I 
ever  done  to  you  since  I  came  to  the  cottage  ?  " 

"  What  good  !  Ah,  Marjorie,  can  you  ask  that  ques- 
tion, remembering  one  night?  " 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet  in  an  instant,  as  though 
the  kindly  tones  had  been  a  fierce  insult. 

"There  it  is!"  she  said.  "You  must  be  forever 
talking  about  that,  Eleanor,  and  feeling  that  I  have 
placed  you  under  some  awful  burden  of  gratitude ;  and 
so  you  bear  with  my  tempers  like  a  saint,  and  are 
ready  to  take  me,  faults  and  all,  for  the  rest  of  my 
days." 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  put  up  her  hands  again  and  drew 
the  girl  down  on  the  cricket,  softly  but  firmly.  "No, 
Marjorie,"  she  said,  with  some  unusual  gravity,  "I 
never  thought  of  any  debt  when  I  asked  you  to  stay 
with  us.  I  supposed  you  knew  me  better  than  that." 

The  heat  went  down  in  Marjorie' s  cheeks,  the  blaze 
in  her  eyes. 

"  But  you  said  —  you  know  what  you  said,  Eleanor," 
she  faltered. 

"Ah,  Marjorie,  you  were  always  so  swift  to  jump  at 
conclusions  !  Do  you  think  I  have  loved  you  any  better 
since  that  night  when  you  saved  poor  Ben's  life?  " 


TUB    MILLS    OF  TUXBURY.  195 

"  I  fancied  you  thought  so."  Then  she  burst  out 
with  a  sudden  fierceness  :  "  But  gratitude  is  not  love  ?  " 

"No,  certainly,"  replied  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  gravely 
and  firmly,  like  one  who  knew  the  ground  on  which  she 
was  treading  :  "  Gratitude  is  not  love.  I  could  never 
mistake  the  one  for  the  other." 

Marjorie  looked  up,  and  whatever  the  inward  tumult 
was  which  made  that  storm  in  her  face,  a  sudden  sweet- 
ness shone  out  of  it  now :  "I  know  you  would  not  tell 
me  anything  but  the  truth,  Eleanor,"  she  said.  "I 
believe  you." 

And  she  laid  her  head  down  in  her  cousin's  lap  like 
a  tired  child's,  while  her  eyes  swam  in  blinding  tears. 

"Foolish,  perverse  child!"  said  Eleanor,  stroking 
the  beautiful,  glossy  head  again.  "  To  get  up  any  absurd 
notion  about  gratitude,  after  all  the  years  that  I  have 
known  and  loved  you !  0  Marjorie,  that  was  doing 
me  a  cruel  wrong  !  " 

"Forgive  me,  Eleanor,"  her  voice  choked  with  tears, 
and  humble  as  a  repentant  child's. 

"  Is  there  anything  in  the  world  which  I  would  not 
forgive  you,  dear?  " 

After  this  the  two  women  had  a  long  talk  together. 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh  knew  the  time  had  come  now,  and 
Marjorie  did  not  shrink  or  start  at  any  of  the  questions, 
although  her  cousin  tried  to  probe  to  the  core  of  the 
discordance  and  unhappiness  which  possessed  the  girl ; 
and  Marjorie  was  honest,  —  at  least  she  meant  to  be :  if 
there  were  facts  her  soul  dared  not  turn  and  face,  she 
would  not  let  herself  believe  they  were  there.  She 


196  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

confessed  her  misery  ;  some  strange  unrest  that  haunted 
her  by  day  and  night  like  an  evil  spirit,  wearing  her 
nerves  and  maddening  her  with  hard,  fierce,  bitter  moods. 
There  was  no  rest  nor  calm  for  her  in  anything.  Where 
the  hot,  rasping  impatience  would  end  she  did  not 
know.  She  should  like  to  think  it  would  be  in  the  cool, 
dark  silences  of  the  grave ;  and  those  words  set  Eleanor 
to  crying,  so  that  Marjorie  blamed  herself  roundly,  she 
not  being  at  all  given  to  sentimentalizing  over  her  pro- 
spective grave. 

There  being  no  other  apparent  cause  for  Marjorie's 
trouble,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  set  it  all  down  to  nervous 
derangement,  and  descanted  eloquently  on  the  hold 
which  this  gained  of  soul  and  body ;  then  slid  off,  by  a 
very  natural  train  of  association,  to  the  virtues  of 
Peruvian  bark  and  Port  wine,  ending  at  last  with  a 
devout  prayer  for  Dr.  Avery's  return  from  his  Canada 
trip,  he  being  the  only  physician  that  unmanageable 
young  woman  would  so  much  as  hear  a  hint  about  con- 
sulting. 

The  baby  manifested  his  sympathy  in  the  prettiest 
way,  coming  up  and  laying  his  warm  little  cheek  on  her 
wet  one,  and  patting  her  forehead  with  his  bits  of 
dimpled  fingers,  while  Gray,  the  faithful  old  shepherd 
dog,  pushed  his  huge  body  between  them  .and  licked  the 
girl's  hand. 

All  these  things  did  Marjorie  good ;  and  yet  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  all  their 
talk  had  not  struck  to  the  core  of  Marjorie's  trouble, 
only  touched  its  surface  ;  but  this  kept  her  all  the  more 


THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  197 

firmly  insisting  that  she  had  gone  to  the  root  of  the 
matter,  and  that  Marjorie's  nerves  must  bear  the  respon- 
sibility of  her  moods. 

Something  in  the  eyes  of  both  the  baby  and  the  dog, 
when  at  last  Marjorie  lifted  her  head  from  her  cousin's 
lap,  reminded  her  of  Berry  Slmmway,  when  they  had 
met  on  the  late  cold  winter  afternoon.  Whether  the 
talk  that  morning  had  or  had  not  done  Marjorie  any 
permanent  good,  it  had  cleared  her  atmosphere  for  the 
time,  and  there  was  something  touching  in  the  way  she 
kissed  Eleanor  and  told  her  she  loved  her  better  than 
anything  on  earth. 

She  went  out  among  the  flower-beds  and  brought  in 
the  blossoms,  heavy  with  dew  and  fragrance,  and  filled 
the  vases,  with  something  of  her  old  animation ;  but  all 
the  while  she  was  asking  herself  whether  the  best  thing 
she  could  do  would  not  be  to  go  away  from  Tuxbury. 

Yet  the  world  outside  looked  so  lonely  and  wide  that 
she  shuddered.  Some  of  the  last  talks  she  had  had  with 
her  uncle  before  that  dreadful  illness  came  back  to  her 
now. 

Careless  and  extravagant  in  all  business  affairs  as  the 
man  had  been,  by  taste  and  temperament,  he  must  yet 
have  begun  to  realize  that  the  sluices  he  had  opened  in 
his  fortune  had  heavily  drained  his  resources.  No  doubt 
that  knowledge  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  plan  on  which 
they  had  both  set  their  hearts,  —  a  cottage  home  in 
Switzerland,  all  grace  and  quiet  and  beauty,  where 
they  could  live,  after  their  own  hearts,  a  life  intellectual, 
aesthetic,  in  the  midst  of  books  and  pictures  and  the 


198  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

solemn  mountains  and  the  warm,  joyful  valleys  about 
them,  — a  life  of  ease  and  luxury  too.  "And  we  can 
run  over  to  Paris  or  London  or  across  into  Italy  when- 
ever you  get  tired  of  an  old  man's  society,  Marjorie,  my 
bird  of  Paradise,"  her  uncle  would  say. 

Marjorie  would  run  her  fingers  through  the  crisp, 
beautiful  gray  hair  and  laugh  out:  "0  Uncle  Hal,  an 
hour  of  that  old  man's  talk  is  worth  a  whole  year  of  any 
younger  one's  I  ever  had  the  honor  of  listening  to." 

They  had  settled  upon  Interlachen.  The  whole 
project  was  ripe  for  the  fulfilment,  —  the  man  and 
woman,  both  tired  of  their  nomadic  life,  — when  death 
came  between  them,  and  instead  of  the  pretty  cottage 
among  the  mountains  at  Interlachen,  there  was  a  lower 
roof  and  a  narrower  for  one  of  them. 

Since  that  time  Marjorie  had  put  all  those  memories 
out  of  her  mind,  as  one  does  the  remembrance  of  terrible 
pain,  but  they  came  back  on  her  now  as  fresh  winds 
from  off  the  land  come  to  those  who  have  been  tossing 
long  and  homesick  on  the  sea. 

"  Why  was  it  too  late  to  have  the  home  at  Inter- 
lachen ?"  reasoned  Marjorie  Carruthers.  "  It  was  true 
its  dearest  life  had  been  quenched ;  but  still  the  grand 
old  mountains  were  there,  and  the  warm  valleys  amongst 
them,  and  all  the  fine  exhilaration  of  the  atmosphere, 
whose  first  breath,  her  uncle  used  to  declare,  took 
twenty  years'  stiffness  out  of  his  bones. 

The  first  thought  of  leaving  Eleanor  cost  Marjorie 
a  sharp  pang,  but  she  could  not  stay  for  the  rest  of  her 
days  at  Tuxbury,  especially  as  that  was  to  be  the  home 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  199 

of  Ben  Whitmarsh.  They  could  never  get  on  together 
under  the  same  roof  after  what  had  passed  between  them 
one  night. 

At  least  she  would  take  herself  out  of  the  sight  of  a 
man  who  was  weighed  down  with  such  a  terrific  sense 
of  gratitude  as  young  Whitmarsh  must  be,  when  it  had 
actually  driven  him  into  offering  her  his  hand,  and 
ended  in  making  her  cordially  hate  him  for  daring  to 
insult  her  in  that  fashion. 

For  Marjorie  Carruthers  began  to  think  she  did  hate 
this  man ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  honestly  believe  she 
would  have  seized  eagerly  on  any  fact  which  might  have 
told  to  his  disadvantage,  thus  lowering  his  character  and 
justifying  her  contempt,  even  though  it  came  to  his  tell- 
ing a  lie  or  picking  somebody's  pocket.  She  might 
have  been  glad,  I  say,  to  know  something  of  that  sort ; 
but  not  all  the  world  could  have  made  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers believe  an  ignoble  act  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh. 
Even  his  proposing  to  her  was  not  that,  but  evinced,  at 
least,  an  innate  nobleness  and  generosity  ;  she  had  to 
admit  it,  sorely  against  her  will. 

The  idea  of  a  home  in  Switzerland  having  taken  pos- 
session of  her,  and  in  her  restless,  tumultuous  state  any 
purpose  which  afforded  her  thoughts  food  to  dwell  on  was 
welcome,  Marjorie' s  next  purpose  was  to  secure  the  right 
sort  of  servants. 

This  was  a  matter  of  great  importance  to  her,  as  she 
would  be  sole  mistress  of  her  home,  and  she  intended 
to  carry  out  all  its  details,  so  far  as  possible,  after  the 
plan  her  uncle  had  formed.  She  wanted  domestics 


200  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

faithful,  honest,  loyal ;  and  her  comparatively  slender 
income  would  not  admit  of  expensive  attendance,  al- 
though her  resources  would  go  three  times  as  far  in 
Switzerland  as  in  America,  thanks  to  Marjorie's  experi- 
ence of  life  abroad. 

One  day,  turning  over  all  those  things,  — for  Marjorie 
clung  with  desperate  energy  to  her  new  plan,  making  it 
shut  out  all  other  horizons  where  her  thoughts  might 
have  wandered,  —  Berry  Shumway  came  into  the  girl's 
mind,  —  Berry  Shumway,  with  her  brown,  peaked  face 
and  the  red  mouth  all  a-tremble,  and  the  look  of  awe 
and  devotion  in  her  eyes  on  that  solitary  time  that  they 
had  met  each  other. 

The  doctor  had  called  the  child  a  "  deft,  handy  little 
soul,  living  there  all  alone  with  her  big  brother." 

This  brought  out  the  young  workman,  with  his 
sturdy  figure  and  the  slouch  in  his  brawny  shoulders, 
and,  above  all,  the  strange,  awe-struck  stare  with  which 
he  had  regarded  her  when  she  gave  him  her  hand  in  the 
Furnace  gallery  that  afternoon. 

Strangely  enough,  it  struck  this  odd  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers  that  the  young  workman  and  his  sister  would  be 
the  very  sort  of  people  she  should  need  when  she  came 
to  go  abroad.  She  wanted  a  man-servant,  sturdy  and 
reliable,  and  a  bright,  active  little  housemaid  that  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  have  about  her. 

Then  Marjorie  reflected,  too,  with  that  kindly  gener- 
osity which  was  a  part  of  her  nature,  and  which  went 
far  to  make  the  secret  of  her  charm  with  her  inferiors, 
that  Berry  Shumway  would  be  in  many  ways  benefited 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  201 

and  elevated  by  the  change  in  her  lot,  —  from  the  coarse 
factory  life,  to  the  quiet  and  refinement  of  a  home  like 
the  one  Miss  Carruthers  had  planned  for  herself. 

Then,  as  for  wages,  the  workman  and  his  sister  would 
lose  nothing  by  the  exchange,  for  Marjorie  could,  at 
least,  offer  them  as  much  as  Tuxbury  afforded  for  their 
services.  The  result  of  all  these  cogitations  was  that 
Miss  Carruthers'  manner  came  somewhat  out  of  the 
chill  and  gloom  which  had  hitherto  possessed  it,  and  the 
whole  household  felt  the  change.  She  did  not,  however, 
confide  her  plan  to  Eleanor,  who  would  be  certain  to 
oppose  it  with  all  her  might,  thinking  the  whole  a  most 
romantic  and  unpractical  scheme  ;  and  then  Marjorie 
felt  herself  that  when  the  time  came  it  would  be  hard 
enough  to  tear  herself  away  from  her  cousin. 

11  She  can  come  to  me  every  summer,  though,  the 
dear  creature,"  mused  the  girl,  and  then  she  looked 
down  and  met  Gray's  eyes  with  the  dumb  sympathy  in 
them :  — 

"Old  fellow,  you  will  go  with  me,  won't  you?" 
bending  down  and  smoothing  the  shaggy  hide  with  her 
long,  soft  fingers. 

The  creature  rose  up,  shook  his  huge  body  and  laid 
his  fore  paws  tenderly  on  her  lap,  and  Marjorie  knew 
that  he  had  answered  her  as  well  as  though  he  had 
spoken. 


202  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ONE  afternoon,  Berry  Shumway,  at  work  among  the 
pinks  and  marigolds  in  her  square  of  front  yard,  heard  a 
little  noise  at  the  front  gate  and  looked  up  suddenly. 

What  a  vision  stood  there  of  grace  and  daintiness  and 
beauty  !  It  seemed  to  make  the  very  air  finer  and  purer 
about  it,  —  at  least  in  Berry  Shumway's  eyes,  as  she 
dropped  her  pruning-knife. 

"0  ma'am,  is  that  you?"  stammered  the  girl,  glow- 
ing with  wonder  and  pleasure. 

The  tall,  elegant  woman  smiled  her  sweetest:  "Yes, 
Berry.  May  I  come  in?  " 

Berry  ran  to  the  gate  and  unhooked  it,  shaking  off  a 
little  sand  from  her  brown  fingers. 

The  lady  shook  hands  warmly.  What  a  soft,  velvety 
feel  the  little  pink  palm  had  !  Berry  thought. 

"I  see  you  know  me,  Berry?  "  said  the  lady. 

11  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  indeed,"  replied  the  girl,  and  she 
thought  anybody,  having  seen  that  face  once,  must 
know  it  anywhere  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 

"  I  took  a  fancy  to  drive  over  and  see  you  this  after- 
noon. The  gardener  was  going  out  to  the  ore-beds,  and 
so  I  made  him  drop  me  where  the  roads  forked,  and 
walked  the  last  mile.  He  will  come  for  me.  I  see  you 


THE  MILLS   OP   TUXBURY.  203 

are  fond  of  flowers,  child,  and  they  show  for  themselves 
what  loving  care  you  take  of  them  !  " 

Berry's  face  — the  small,  bright,  honest  face  —  flushed 
with  pleasure  under  the  freckles  at  the  lady's  praise, 
while  the  latter's  gaze  swept  among  the  pinks  and  mari- 
golds and  the  plumes  of  white  phlox  and  the  peonies  that 
opened  their  great,  fervid,  red  hearts  to  the  warm  rays 
of  the  sun. 

They  had  reached  the  door-step  now,  and  Berry,  a  little 
steadied  from  her  first  surprise  and  excitement,  which 
was  natural  enough  considering  who  her  guest  was,  — 
for  she  could  hardly  have  been  more  amazed  had  an 
angel  with  white  wings  dropped  from  the  clouds  at  her 
gate,  —  Berry  remembered  that  she  had  her  duties  as 
hostess  now  to  perform,  and  there  was  some  force  in  this 
brown  little  factory-girl  that,  whenever  any  work  was  set 
before  her,  would  not  permit  her  to  shirk  it ;  nay,  more, 
she  would  put  all  her  might  of  brain  or  brawn  into  it. 

"  Will  you  walk  into  the  house,  ma'am  ?  "  she  said, 
pushing  the  door  wide  open  and  standing  there.  "You 
are  welcome  —  oh,  I  am  sure  nobody  in  the  world  would 
be  so  welcome  as  you  are." 

"Thank  you,  child;"  and  the  smile  of  Marjorie 
Carruthers  came  out  at  its  sweetest,  and  her  whole  face 
seemed  to  swim  in  it,  as  the  faces  of  saints  do  in  a  nimbus 
of  glory. 

She  went  into  the  little  front  room,  and  its  shady 
coolness  was  welcome  after  the  heat  outside,  and  Berry 
brought  the  cushioned  rocking-chair  that  was  as  easy  as 


204  TffK   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

possible,  and  placed  a  stool  at  the  lady's  feet  and  a  great 
palmleaf  in  her  hand. 

"  Why,  how  very  comfortable  you  have  made  me 
already  !  I  think  you  must  have  a  knack  at  doing  these 
things,"  said  Miss  Carruthers,  leaning  back  in  the  arm- 
chair, her  eyes  taking  in,  without  seeming  to  do  this, 
everything  there  was  in  the  room,  —  the  striped  carpet, 
the  blue  vases  filled  with  flowers  on  the  mantel,  and  the 
air  of  thorough  neatness  which  made  the  workman's 
little  cool  front  room  seem  a  very  pleasant  sort  of  a  place 
that  afternoon. 

"0  ma'am,  it's  so  very  little  that  I  can  do,"  an- 
swered Berry  ;  and  she  thought,  although  she  would  not 
say  this,  that  a  palace  would  only  be  a  fitting  place  to 
receive  such  a  guest. 

"  Now,  Berry,  bring  your  chair  here,  and  we  will 
have  a  quiet  chat  together.  I  came  over  on  purpose  for 
this,  because  I  had  a  fancy  to  know  you  better,  and  then 
I  thought  myself  pretty  certain  to  find  you  at  home  this 
afternoon,  because  of  the  holiday  at  the  Mills." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  the  shyness  slipping  off  from  the  girl 
more  and  more  at  the  lady's  gracious  manner,  which  was 
pervaded  with  no  subtle  air  of  condescension,  notwith- 
standing the  immense  disparity  between  the  beautiful, 
cultured,  elegant  woman,  and  the  brown,  ignorant,  hard- 
working factory  girl.  "And  I  am  all  alone,  too,  for 
Hardy  has  gone  over  to  the  county  town  to  see  the 
training.  He's  fond  of  drums  and  music  and  a  grand 
crowd,  and  I  coaxed  him  to  go." 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  205 

"  That  was  right.  I  have  seen  this  big  brother  of 
yours,  too,  Berry." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  at  the  Furnace;  he  told  me  about  it. 
I  was  ashamed  of  his  actions  then,  but  the  sight  of  all 
those  grand  people  was  too  much  for  him  ;  and  then  it 
was  pretty  soon  after  he  got  back  to  work,  and  it  took 
Hardy  a  long  time  to  get  over  what  happened  before." 

"But  I  hope  he  has  done  that  by  this  time,"  said 
Miss  Carruthers,  with  the  kindest  interest. 

"Ye — es,  ma'am,"  a  doubt  clinging  along  her  affirm- 
ative. "  Hardy  has  pretty  much  got  back  his  spirits. 
It's  done  him  good,  being  among  the  flowers  ;  he  always 
took  o  that  wonderful,  and  then  his  work  has  put  new 
heart  into  him.  Sometimes  I  hear  him  whistlin'  a  tune 
when  he  is  digging  around  the  roots,  and  it  does  me  good, 
and  I  think,  '  You've  come  back  to  your  old  self,  Hardy 
Shumway.'  " 

"  You  are  fond  of  this  big  brother  of  yours,  I  see, 
Berry,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,"  the  little  brown  face  all  alive  with 
feeling.  "  Nobody  knows  Hardy  as  well  as  I  do,  and 
all  the  good  there  is  in  him.  He  is  so  kind  to  me,  too, 
—  kinder  than  ever,  it  seems  to  me,  nowadays." 

Encouraged  by  something  she  could  not  analyze  in 
Miss  Carruthers'  manner,  which  drew  her  on  to  talk, 
Berry's  glib  little  tongue  slipped  along  without  any 
stammering,  telling,  in  her  honest  way,  her  simple  little 
story. 

It  did  Miss  Carruthers  good  to  listen,  too,  —  drew  that 
proud,  reticent  woman  out  of  herself,  which  these  days 


206  THB   MILLS   OF   TUXBURT. 

was  the  most  disagreeable  subject  in  the  world  to  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers.  She  had  her  own  share  of  the  talk- 
ing too ;  but  of  course  all  that  the  woman  and  the  girl 
said  to  each  other  that  afternoon,  although,  taken  at  the 
time,  it  seemed  to  have  its  own  pleasant  meanings  and 
fitness,  would  not  be  worth  writing  down  in  a  book. 

Berry  Shumway  had  inherited  her  English  mother's 
love  of  order  and  hospitality,  with  her  nice  executive 
quality ;  and  that  morning  she  had  set  her  heart  on 
giving  Hardy  a  little  holiday  treat  when  he  came  home 
from  his  visit  to  the  military  display  in  the  adjoining 
town. 

So  Berry  had  made  a  loaf  of  cake  and  taken  it  out  of 
the  oven,  —  such  a  light,  fresh,  golden-brown  loaf  that 
it  might  have  taken  the  prize  at  a  county  fair  ;  and  she 
had  discovered  on  her  daily  trips  to  the  Mills  a  few  rasp- 
berry-bushes in  a  sunny  corner  of  a  lonely  pasture- field, 
where  the  first  fruit  had  begun  to  hang,  the  factory-girl 
thought,  like  great  red  heaps  of  fallen  stars.  Berry  had 
visited  these  bushes  almost  every  day,  watching  the  slow 
ripening  of  the  berries,  cherishing  secretly  a  little  plan 
which  she  had  carried  out  that  holiday  morning,  going 
off  surreptitiously,  and  returning  an  hour  or  two  later 
with  a  covered  dish  heaped  with  the  first  great,  red, 
fresh,  lush  berries ;  more  than  this,  —  for  Berry  never 
did  things  by  halves,  and  Hardy  showed  so  much  kind 
thoughtfulness  to  her  these  days  that  his  sister  was 
never  quite  so ,  happy  as  when  she  was  busy  over  some 
pleasant  little  surprise  for  him,  —she  hunted  up  a 
small,  old  china-jug  of  her  mother's,  and  actually  had 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  207 

this  filled  with  fresh  cream  and  hung  it  in  the  well  to 
keep  cool  until  her  brother's  return. 

They  had  been  talking  together  an  hour  perhaps, 
Berry  giving  the  lady  a  good  many  glimpses  into  her 
narrow,  solitary,  but  not  unhappy  life,  and  into  the  warm 
little  heart  that  made  comfort  and  light  through  all  the 
loneliness  and  poverty  ;  and  which,  blessing  somebody 
else,  had  its  own  portion  pressed  down  and  overflowing 
in  return ;  when  of  a  sudden  the  girl  started  up,  asking 
the  lady  to  excuse  her  a  moment,  and  she  hurried  out  of 
the  room,  leaving  Marjorie  alone,  the  latter  looking 
more  animated  and  like  herself  than  she  had  looked  for 
weeks. 

Berry  was  back  again  in  an  incredibly  short  space, 
bringing  with  her  a  small  tray,  whose  defects  she  had 
covered  with  a  snowy  towel,  a  glass  dish  heaped  with 
great,  shining,  red  berries  and  deluged  with  cream,  and 
the  loaf  of  golden-brown  cake  cut  into  large  slices. 

She  set  these  before  the  astonished  lady  :  "  Won't  you 
please  to  try  them,  ma'am?" 

"  Why,  Berry,  where  in  the  world  do  you  get  food 
like  this  ?  It  is  a  feast  dainty  enough  for  the  gods  !  " 

"I  picked  the  berries,  and  made  the  cake  myself, 
ma'am,  this  morning,  because  it  was  holiday,"  answered 
the  child,  blushing  with  pleasure. 

Miss  Carruthers'  long  walk  had  given  her  an  appe- 
tite, —  something,  as  Eleanor  could  tell  you,  which  she 
had  not  manifested  for  a  long  while;  then  fresh  wild 
raspberries  were  a  luxury  she  had  not  tasted  this  sea- 
son. 


208  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

She  laid  her  gloves  on  one  side,  took  the  tray  into 
her  lap,  and  really  it  seemed  to  her  in  her  whole  life  she 
had  never  enjoyed  anything  quite  so  much  as  she  did  the 
cake  and  berries  under  the  low  roof  of  the  workman. 
Of  all  things  that  Miss  Carruthers  should  be  eating 
there,  and  thinking  that,  too  ! 

As  for  Berry,  the  little  soul  was  in  a  kind  of  seventh 
heaven  of  delight  over  the  visit  and  the  lady's  evident 
enjoyment  of  her  small  feast,  and  the  wonder  of  what 
Hardy  would  say  when  she  came  to  tell  him  all  about 
it. 

"No,  Berry,  thank  you,"  at  last.  "I  cannot  find 
room  for  another  mouthful,  or  I  would  not  stop  ;  but  two 
great  slices  of  that  cake  and  three  saucers  of  berries 
have  at  last  proved  my  limits,"  laughing  half  to  herself. 

Then  Miss  Carruthers  looked  gravely  at  Berry  for  a 
few  moments:  "  Child.''  she  said,  "  I  think  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  have  you  always  about  me.  There  are  not 
half-a-dozen  people  in  the  world  of  whom  I  could  say  so 
much." 

Berry  could  hardly  believe  her  own  ears.  She 
blushed  crimson  with  pleasure:  ''  0  ma'am,  what  could 
I  do  for  you  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  A  good  deal,  I  think,  child/'  laying  her  white  hand 
on  the  girl's  brown,  thin  one.  "  Some  time,  perhaps, 
we  will  talk  more  about  that." 

"  Yes,  ma'am."  faltered  Berry,  her  wits  all  astray. 

"  It  does  me  good  to  look  at  your  little,  bright,  hon- 
est, true  face.  I  knew  it  was  that,  Berry,  from  the  first 
time  I  saw  it  gazing  up  at  me  in  the  factory-road  that 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  209 

afternoon.  It  looks  plumper  and  happier  now  than  it 
did  then,  I  am  glad  to  perceive." 

A  little  tremulousness  came  into  the  bright  warmth  now  : 
"  I  had  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  then,  you  see,  ma'am ; 
but  it's  all  gone  now,"  voice  and  smile  clearing  up 
brightly. 

Miss  Carruthers  led  the  girl  to  talk  of  that  time,  and 
Berry,  although  it  was  not  her  nature  to  dwell  on  her 
troubles,  told  much  more  of  the  miserable  story  of  last 
winter  than  she  really  had  any  idea  she  was  doing,  and 
Marjorie,  whose  heart  was  as  tender  as  her  pride  was 
terrible,  was  awfully  shocked  with  this  glimpse  into  pri- 
vation and  suffering. 

"If  I  had  only  known  it,"  she  said,  "it  should  never 
have  happened." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  there  was  so  many  good  folks  in 
the  world  until  it  came  out;  "  and  that  brought  up  Dr. 
Avery,  about  whom  Berry  could  never  say  enough ;  and 
then,  after  the  long  waiting  and  misery,  the  hfippy  night 
when  the  letter  came  from  the  "  beautiful  young  gentle- 
man," and  Hardy  was  reinstated  once  more  in  his  em- 
ployment. If  I  could  only  tell  you  the  whole  story  as 
Berry  Shumway  did  ;  all  the  lights  and  shadows  on  it  ; 
the  strong  brother,  in  his  sullen  despair ;  the  young  girl 
braver  than  him  through  all,  keeping  a  bright  -face  and 
hopeful  words  before  him,  but  her  heart  aching  and  fail- 
ing her  as  the  days  went  on  and  no  help  came. 

She  choked  over  the  memory  now.  but  voice  and  lips 
steadied  themselves  in  a  moment.  "She  had  never 
doubted  God  would  bring  them  out  some  way,"  she  said. 


210  THE  MILLS   OP  TVXBURT. 

"  She  had  clung  to  him  always,  very  much  as  she 
would  have  clung  to  her  mother's  hand,  going  through 
some  dreadful  dark,  where  she  could  not  see  her  face, 
and  he  had  not  forgotten ;  he  had  brought  her  out  into 
the  light  again,  — her  and  Hardy." 

"Yes, — yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Marjorie,  in  a  kind 
of  absent  way,  and  she  was  wondering,  meanwhile,  how 
much  truth  lay  at  the  bottom  of  this  child's  words,  and 
wishing  her  own  lonely,  hunted  soul  had  the  anchor  of 
poor  little  Berry  Shumway's  faith. 

Berry  must  have  been  saying  something  about  young 
Whitmarsh,  for  when  Marjorie  listened  again,  the  words 
were,  "  Such  a  kind,  beautiful,  noble  young  gentleman 
as  he  is  !  but  you  know  all  about  him,  ma'am." 

Marjorie  instinctively  understood  to  whom  she  re- 
ferred :  "  Yes,  he  is  very  good,"  she  said,  simply  ;  and 
Berry  dropped  the  subject,  not  knowing  why  she  did  so. 

In  a  little  while  Marjorie  looked  wistfully  at  the  girl 
again:  "What  a  happy  face  it  is,  Berry!  "  she  said. 
"  I  think  there  is  a  happy  little  soul  behind  it,  — hap- 
pier than  mine,"  her  voice  dropping  over  these  last 
words,  and  some  unutterable  mournfulness  clinging  to 
them. 

"I  —  happier  than  you,  ma'am!"  her  dark  eyes 
opening  wide  on  her  guest  with  dismay. 

"I  fancy  so,  Berry.  That  strikes  you  as  very 
strange,  I  see,"  and  Miss  Carruthers'  smile  with  its 
sadness  endorsed  her  words. 

"But,  ma'am,  such  a  grand,  beautiful,  wealthy  lady 
as  you  are,  and  then  everybody  to  love  and  praise  you  ! 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  211 

Why,  I  have  thought  a  good  many  times  it  seemed  to 
me  you  must  be  happier  than  anybody  in  the  world." 

Marjorie  drew  a  sigh,  and  her  faint  smile  came  about 
her  lips  and  touched  them  with  weariness  and  pain. 

It  hurt  Berry  to  see  that.  She  stumbled  on  with  a 
touching  earnestness :  "  And  then  when  you  think, 
ma'am,  what  you  did  that  night,  —  saved  that  grand, 
beautiful  gentleman's  life,  when  all  the  strong  men  about 
him  had  turned  cowards,  and  how  he  must  feel  about  it 
all  his  life  to  come  —  "  0 

"  There,  Berry,"  interrupted  Marjorie,  with  a  little 
involuntary  movement,  "  I  don't  want  he  should  feel  any 
way  about  it.  If  there  is  one  word  in  this  world  I  hate 
more  than  another  it  is  gratitude." 

Berry's  face  was  a  study  then  in  its  utter  consterna- 
tion. She  drew  a  long  breath  or  two.  then  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  a  new  thought:  ':  You  mean,  ma'am,  that 
you  don't  like  anybody  to  feel  they  owe  you  a  great 
debt,  because  in  that  case  one  might  be  uncomfortable 
about  paying  it." 

"Well,  yes,  I  mean  that  partly,"  looking  at  the  girl 
and  wondering  at  the  shrewd  little  brain  behind  the 
brown  face.  "  Shouldn't  you  feel  just  so,  Berry  ?  " 

She  was  serious  a  moment,  twisting  her  fingers  to- 
gether, then  she  looked  up  and  answered  very  slowly 
and  earnestly,  "  If  I  had  done  some  great  good  to  any- 
body, and  they  felt  always  that  a  great  debt  must  be 
paid  me,  it  would  hurt  me,  I  am  sure ;  but  I  can't  help 
feeling  that  always  in  the  best  sort  of  gratitude  there  is 
some  love  which  makes  the  paying  pleasanter." 


212  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

It  was  curious,  the  effect  which  that  girl's  speech 
had  on  Marjorie  Carruthers.  A  flush  came  into  her 
pale  face  from  chin  to  forehead ;  she  stared  at  Berry  as 
though  the  poor  little  child  were  some  sybil  who  had 
sounded  a  new  truth  for  her.  She  played  nervously 
with  the  rings  on  her  long  slender  fingers,  but  she  did  not 
say  one  word. 

A  while  after  that,  though,  Miss  Carruthers  had  the 
talking  wholly  to  herself,  and  Berry,  her  wide-awake 
soul  in  her  face,  wa§  listening  to  every  word,  for  the 
lady  was  describing  the  great  world  beyond  the  sea ;  the 
vast,  solemn  mountains  with  the  snows  forever  upon 
their  summits ;  the  warm,  sunny  valleys  with  the  soft 
tumult  of  brooks  among  them ;  the  pretty,  picturesque 
little  cottages  scattered  over  the  landscape,  and  the  peas- 
ants with  their  bright,  ancient  dresses  at  their  work  in 
the  fields  or  gathered  in  groups,  singing  and  dancing  in 
the  open  air ;  and  Miss  Carruthers,  watching  Berry's 
face,  saw  that  her  eyes  grew  darker  and  brighter  with 
wonder  and  curiosity  as  she  listened. 

Then  the  lady  went  on  to  describe  the  home  she  was 
planning  for  herself  in  this  beautiful  land  far  across  the 
sea,  and  Marjorie  loved  to  dwell  on  the  details,  and  her 
great  eyes  sparkled  and  her  fair  cheek  glowed  with  a 
new  pleasure,  and  Berry  sat  still  and  drank  in  every 
word. 

"  Oh,  it  must  be  just  like  heaven  to  be  there  !  "  was 
the  factory-girl's  comment  when  the  lady  paused  at  last. 
"  Do  you  think  so,  Berry  ?  "  and  again  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers' smile  caught  her  face-  up  in  its  radiance. 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  213 

"  But  I  shall  want  somebody  to  live  with  me  and  take 
care  of  me  in  my  pretty  little  nest  among  the  mountains 
far  across  the  sea,  —  somebody  whom  I  can  like  and 
who  will  like  me ;  somebody  prompt  and  swift  and 
helpful  of  hand  and  foot  and  eye,  who  will  keep  the 
home  bright  and  orderly,  and  prepare  the  meals  and 
wait  on  me ;  somebody  who  will  be  made  happy  by 
living  with  me;  somebody  who  will  be  a  loyal  little 
friend  at  all  times  and  understand  my  moods,  and  serve 
me  less  for  money  than  for  love.  Do  you  know  where 
I  can  find  such  a  little  friend,  Berry?  " 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl;  but  a  dim  light  was 
beginning  to  dawn  on  her,  and  yet  she  could  not,  dared 
not,  believe  anything  so  wonderful. 

"Well,  I  think  I  do,"  replied  Marjorie,  with  her 
ravishing  smile ;  ' '  and  the  name  of  this  strange  little 
somebody  who  is  .to  go  with  me,  and  take  care  of  me, 
and  have  happy  times  herself  with  the  books  and  the 
flowers,  and  see  the  wonderful  world  across  the  sea,  is 
Berry  Shumway !  " 

"0  ma'am,  do  you  mean  me  —  really  me?"  her 
face  hot  with  astonishment  and  delight. 

"Yes.  child,  I  mean  you.  Do  you  think  you  would 
really  like  to  go  and  live  with  me  there?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am.  It  would  be  pleasanter  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world  —  only  —  only  I  know  so  little ; 
I  could  not  take  care  of  such  a  grand  lady  and  such  a 
pretty  house." 

"I  am  the  best  judge  of  that.  Berry.  I  see  what  a 
prompt,  deft,  handy  little  soul,  to  quote  Dr.  Avery,  you 


214  THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY. 

are.  I  am  a  great  deal  more  at  home  in  life  abroad  than 
I  am  in  my  own  country,  and  I,  or  somebody  else,  could 
teach  you  all  you  would  have  to  learn.  Those  native 
bright  wits  of  yours  will  carry  you  over  all  difficulties 
that  would  be  likely  to  rise  in  your  way." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  ma'am  !  "  said  Berry,  flattered  and 
amazed  almost  beyond  the  power  of  further  words.  In 
a  moment  she  added,  "  I  would  try  my  best,  ma'am,"  in 
her  quiet,  steadfast  way,  which  left  no  doubt. 

Another  moment,  and  the  dazzle  in  her  face  was 
quenched:  "There  is  Hardy.  Why,  I  had  forgotten 
him  !  " 

"I  had  not,  Berry.  We  should  need  a  man  to  take 
care  of  the  grounds  and  do  the  errands  and  manage 
affairs,  —  somebody  intelligent,  trusty,  and  faithful.  If 
your  brother  is  that  sort  of  man.  and  would  like  to  go 
with  me  abroad,  I  could  make  it  at  least  worth  his  while 
as  to  stay  here  at  work  in  the  Mills  of  Tuxbury." 

"0  ma'am,  I  am  sure  Hardy  would  go,"  her  face 
all  alive  again.  "There  is  nobody  in  the  world  whom 
he  would  be  so  glad  to  serve  as  you.  I've  heard  him 
talk,  and  I  know ;  but  oh,  what  will  be  say  when  I  come 
to  tell  him?" 

Just  then  a  buggy  drove  up  to  the  gate.  "There, 
they've  come  for  me  at  last,"  said  Marjorie,  rising  up; 
but  she  did  not  say  it  like  one  w.ho  was  particularly 
glad  to  go.  "  Of  course,  Berry,  you  will  mention  what 
I  have  told  you  to  no  one  but  your  brother.  Not  a  soul 
beside  yourself  suspects  my  plans,  and  it  will  take  a 
little  while  to  mature  them.  It  is  fair  that  you  should 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  215 

have  time  to  consider  the  matter  well,  and  I  can  trust 
you,  and  him  also,  I  think." 

The  gardener  came  in,  profuse  with  apologies  for  his 
delay.  They  had  met  with  some  slight  accident  at  the 
ore-beds. 

Miss  Carruthers  cut  him  short:  "It  is  not  of  the 
least  consequence,  Mark.  I  have  been  in  no  great 
hurry." 

She  learned  on  her  return  home,  that  night,  that  Ben 
Whitmarsh  had  returned  from  his  two  weeks'  visit  at 
the  sea-shore. 


216  THE  MILLS   OP  TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THERE  was  nothing  in  the  meeting  of  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh  and  Marjorie  Carruthers  to  strike  an  ordi- 
nary observer.  Whatever  lay  underneath,  each  was  too 
well-bred  man  and  woman,  to  let  it  show  itself  on  the 
surface  of  an  ordinary  greeting. 

There  was,  of  course,  an  under-consciousness  of  all 
that  had  passed  between  them  so  lately,  while  their  talk 
slipped  smoothly  as  quiet  swells  of  tides  among  rocks, 
over  the  commonplaces  of  life,  —  the  weather  and  the 
people  at  the  sea-shore,  and  the  latest  news  from  Wash- 
ington and  Europe. 

Into  this  smooth  talk  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  broke  with  one 
of  those  sudden,  careless  questions  that  strike  down  into 
old  associations  and  memories,  and  fairly  take  away  our 
breaths. 

"  Where  in  the  world  have  you  been  all  this  while, 
Marjorie  ?  If  I  had  not  known  you  well  enough  to  be 
prepared  for  almost  anything  in  the  way  of  gypsy  freaks 
and  desperate,  wild-bushmen  sort  of  adventures,  I  should 
have  grown  seriously  alarmed  as  night  drew  on." 

"I  —  I  went  over  to  the  Settlement,"  answered 
Marjorie,  feeling  that  the  truth  must  out,  and  wishing 
Eleanor's  busy  tongue  had  seized  hold  of  almost  any 
other  question  than  precisely  that  one. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY.  217 

The  next  followed  swiftly  upon  the  heels  of  the  other, 
and  proved  even  worse. 

"What  in  the  world,  Marjorie  Carruthers,  should 
take  you  over  to  the  Settlement?  " 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  The  answer  must  be  forth- 
coming, and  there  sat  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  to  hear  it. 
"I  made  a  call  on  little  Berry  Shumway,"  answered 
Marjorie,  simply. 

"Ah,  yes,"  replied  Eleanor;  and  she  felt  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said,  and  that  the  name  had  brought  back 
the  most  terrible  hour  of  all  their  lives ;  and  she  speedily 
turned  the  conversation  into  other  channels. 

As  for  Ben  Whitmarsh,  you  may  be  certain  that  he 
had  his  own  thoughts  about  this  visit  of  Miss  Carru- 
thers ;  actually  envied  the  poor  little  factory-girl  for  the 
next  few  minutes,  and  yet  it  was  singular  enough  that 
her  affection  for  Marjorie  had  its  origin  in  what  that 
young  lady  had  once  done  for  his  sake. 

In  these  weeks  that  he  had  been  at  the  sea-shore  the 
young  man  fancied  he  had  gained  the  mastery  over  his 
own  will,  and  had  returned  home  rejoicing  in  his  own 
strength. 

Ben  Whitmarsh  had  his  theories  about  love,  and  had 
always  maintained  that  a  man  must  be  made  of  dread- 
fully flaccid  stuff  who  would  let  a  woman's  "  No"  work 
serious  havoc  with  his  life. 

Let  him  stand  up  and  front  it  bravely.  A  man  who 
did  otherwise  might  be  certain  he  richly  deserved  his 
answer.  As  for  himself,  Ben  Whitmarsh  had  little  sym- 
pathy and  less  patience  with  the  spoony,  sentimental 


218  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURTt. 

tribe  who  hugged  their  own  griefs  much  like  children 
stretching  their  hands  and  sobbing  for  the  moon. 

Thus  the  young  man  reasoned,  not  out  of  his  own  ex- 
perience ;  and  after  his  return  to  Tuxbury  the  days  came 
to  test  his  theories,  and  proved  them  a  good  deal  like 
ropes  of  sand. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  did  not  return  to  those  unac- 
countable moods  which  had  preceded  the  young  man's 
departure,  and  which  had  infected  the  whole  household. 
She  had  one  of  those  natures  to  whom  action  of  some  sort 
is  necessary  as  vital  breath,  and  whatever  she  did,  she  put 
heart  and  soul  into  it. 

She  was  absorbed  now  in  this  purpose  of  the  new 
home  abroad,  which  was  not  so  visionary,  after  all,  as  it 
would  probably  have  seemed  to  most  of  Miss  Carruthers' 
friends.  With  all  her  romantic  notions  and  ideas,  she 
had  a  substratum  of  that  strong,  practical  common-sense 
which  would  always  save  her  from  plunging  recklessly 
into  any  absurd  projects.  She  looked  this  matter  of  the 
home  at  Interlachen  on  all  sides,  counted  its  costs  in 
plain,  mathematical  relations  with  her  own  income,  and 
was  satisfied  that  the  expenses  might  be  met,  allowing  a 
margin  for  collateral  ones,  without  making  any  demands 
upon  the  principal. 

Marjorie  was  so  preoccupied  these  days,  settling  all 
her  plans  before  she  made  the  announcement  to  the 
household  at  Tuxbury,  which  would  be  a  good  deal  like 
a  sudden  rattle  of  musketry  in  their  midst,  that  she  was, 
to  some  degree,  oblivious  of  the  presence  of  young  Whit- 
marsh,  or,  if  that  is  claiming  too  much,  his  society  did 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY.  2l 

not  drive  her  into  those  desperate,  antagonistic  states 
which  it  had  done  not  long  before. 

'•  She  carried  herself  in  just  the  way  a  woman  should 
toward  the  man  she  had  rejected,"  young  Whitmarsh 
thought,  with  a  bitter  smile  enough  under  the  brown 
beard.  Indeed,  they  got  back  to  something  which  was  a 
little  like  the  old,  friendly  footing ;  just  that,  it  never 
could  be,  with  the  memory  of  one  evening  in  its  white 
rapture  of  stars  and  moonlight  between  them ;  but  they 
talked  on  one  subject  and  another,  sparkling  up  a  little 
sometimes  into  the  old  jests,  and  yet  wonderfully  quiet 
and  self-possessed  all  these  days. 

Yet  one  thing  gave  the  girl  a  secret  uneasiness  all 
this  time,  and  that  was  the  moment  when  she  must  con- 
fide her  plan  to  her  cousins.  It  could  not  be  put  off 
much  longer,  for  Marjorie  could  not  take  any  active 
movement  in  the  matter  without  first  acquainting  her 
relatives. 

She  knew  perfectly  well  the  dismay  and  disapproval 
with  which  her  whole  scheme  was  sure  to  be  met. 

Yet  with  her  imperative  necessity  for  action,  when 
Marjorie's  plans  were  once  formed,  she  longed  to  set 
about  their  consummation,  and  it  actually  seemed  to  her 
she  should  feel  much  like  a  spent  swimmer  who  just 
reaches  the  shore,  when  she  at  last  got  settled  down  in 
her  home  between  the  lakes  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps. 

She  had  braced  herself  for  any  possible  amount  of 
logic,  ridicule,  and  entreaties  on  the  part  of  John  and 
Eleanor,  and  had  actually  made  up  her  mind  to  the  dis- 
closure next  day,  when  Mr.  Whitmarsh  incidentally  men- 


220  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

tioned  at  supper  that  Dr.  Avery  had  returned  from  his 
trip  to  Canada ;  he  had  shaken  hands  that  very  morning 
on  the  street  with  the  old  man,  bluff  and  hearty  as  ever. 

Now,  all  this  time  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  been  wish- 
ing for  some  friend  to  whose  strong  common  sense  and 
ripe  judgment  she  could  confide  her  plan.  Not  that 
anything  in  the  world  could  swerve  her  from  it,  but  she 
would  like  to  perceive  the  impression  which  it  made  on  a 
mind  acute  and  judicious.  Dr.  Avery  was  just  the 
right  sort  of  man  for  a  confidential  adviser,  and  had 
turned  up  in  precisely  the  nick  of  time.  Miss  Carru- 
thers resolved  to  say  nothing  to  her  cousins  until  she  had 
consulted  the  old  physician. 

The  next  morning  Marjorie  actually  set  off  to  walk 
the  three  miles  which  lay  between  the  cottage  and  the 
old,  square,  gray-stone  residence  of  Dr.  Avery. 

She  found  the  gig  at  the  gate,  and  was  mounting  the 
steps  when  the  doctor  came  out,  the  sight  of  the  stout, 
compact  figure,  the  grizzled  beard  and  hair  and  the 
kindly,  heartsome  face  doing  the  girl  good. 

"Why,  my  child !"  catching  sight  of  the  figure  on 
the  steps,  "  what  has  brought  you  here?  Nothing  bad, 
I  hope?  "  and  he  put  out  both  his  hands. 

Marjorie  grasped  them  eagerly  :  — 

"  Oh,  no,  doctor;  but  I  wanted  to  see  you  so  much 
that  I  could  not  wait.  If  you  are  not  going  too  far,  and 
I  shall  not  be  in  the  way,  take  me  with  you." 

"Not  a  bit  in  the  way,  Marjorie.  Jump  right  in 
now.  A  half-a-dozen  miles'  drive  will  do  you  no  hurt 
after  this  walk." 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  221 

The  two  were  soon  bowling  over  the  road  in  the  doc- 
tor's comfortable  gig.  Of  course  there  was  no  lack  of 
matters  to  talk  about.  What  with  the  doctor's  taking 
the  old  pine  wildernesses  and  mountains  and  rivers  of 
Canada  "  by  storm,"  as  he  called  it,  and  "  camping  out  " 
among  their  grand  solitudes  and  beauty,  and  getting  his 
old  heart  warm  and  fresh  with  the  sap  of  its  youth  again, 
and  what  with  Marjorie's  accounts  of  the  doings  at  Tux- 
bury  during  those  weeks,  they  managed  to  keep  up  a 
brisk  talk  for  the  first  hour. 

All  this  time,  however,  Dr.  Avery,  with  his  kindly, 
shrewd  eyes,  had  been  watching  Marjorie  Carruthers' 
face ;  he  watched  it  when  it  dropped  out  of  the  flush  of 
animated  talk  into  silence,  —  watched  the  sad,  weary 
look  that  came  about  the  mouth.  "  Something  is  wrong," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  he  felt  certain  some  secret  trouble 
had  brought  the  girl  over  from  Tuxbury  that  morning. 

Still,  he  would  not  force  her  confidence,  so  he  sat 
still,  letting  her  take  her  own  time.  At  last  she  looked 
up  and  met  the  kindly  gaze.  A  smile  came  into  her 
face,  but  it  did  not  clear  the  underlying  sadness. 
"  What  is  the  matter,  my  child?  "  he  asked. 

"You  think  there  is  something,  then?  " 

11  Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  certain  of  it  all  along.  Tell 
me." 

Marjorie  drew  her  breath,  —  the  tears  came  into  her 
eyes :  "I  have  come  to  you,  doctor,  because  you  are  the 
only  friend  in  all  the  world  to  whom  I  can  confide  the 
trouble;"  and  there  was  something  pleading  and  child- 
like in  the  way  in  which  the  beautiful  woman  said  this, 


222  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRT. 

which  must  have  touched  a  heart  far  less  tender  than  the 
doctor's. 

He  took  her  hands  in  his  as  though  she  had  been  the 
lonely  little  child  she  seemed  at  that  moment :  "  You 
can  trust  me.  Marjorie." 

And  she  did,  plunging  at  once  right  into  her  plan  of 
going  abroad  and  settling  down  there ;  and  although  it 
seemed  a  wild-goose  chase  enough  at  first,  still,  as  she 
proceeded  to  set  all  the  details  before  him,  this  plan  did 
not  seem,  on  one  side,  visionary  or  unpractical.  One 
thing  was  certain,  Marjorie  Carruthers  was  just  as  much 
at  home  under  the  Alps  as  she  was  in  New  England,  and 
there  was  no  valid  reason,  with  the  sole  one  of  the  separa- 
tion it  involved  betwixt  herself  and  Eleanor  and  her  hus- 
band, that  she  should  not  live  in  Switzerland,  if  she 
preferred  it  to  Tuxbury. 

Dr.  Avery,  too,  had  a  new  estimate  of  Miss  Carru- 
thers' practical  sagacity  as  she  unfolded  her  plans.  She 
had  certainly  displayed  wonderful  foresight  in  the  sort 
of  service  she  had  as  good  as  secured  for  her  home  across 
the  sea.  Berry  Shumway  would  be  just  the  hon- 
est, efficient,  faithful  little  housemaid  Miss  Carru- 
thers needed,  while  the  factory-girl's  own  fortunes  would 
be  immensely  improved;  and  as  for  her  brother,  Dr. 
Avery  fancied,  from  his  sister's  account,  that  he  would  be 
precisely  the  sort  of  factotum  for  the  young  lady's  pur- 
pose. 

But  all  these  facts,  as  he  turned  them  over  in  his  mind, 
by  no  means  explained  Miss  Carruthers'  eagerness  to  get 
away  from  Tuxbury.  A  desire  for  perfect  independence 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  223 

and  a  home  of  her  own,  and  all  that,  when  she  really  had 
these  with  Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  and  care  and  devotion  into 
the  bargain,  furnished  no  sufficient  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem. Dr.  Averj  remembered  a  look  that  he  had  seen 
one  day  on  Miss  Carruthers'  face,  and  that  had  been  to 
him  an  index  to  some  secret  beneath ;  indeed,  the  shrewd 
old  man,  who  knew  so  much  of  human  life,  had  pondered 
that  look  very  often  in  his  tramps  up  and  down  the  Can- 
ada woods.  There  was  something  lying  behind  all  these 
plans  of  Marjorie  Carruthers  which  she  had  not  told  him. 
He  saw  that  in  her  face,  whenever  it  settled  down  into 
repose.  It  had  grown  thin  and  was  weary  and  restless 

When  Dr.  Avery  spoke  at  last,  it  was  wisely,  consid- 
ering the  proud,  sensitive  nature  with  which  he  had  to 
deal. 

He  did  not  treat  her  plan  lightly ;  much  less,  he  did 
not  oppose  it,  but  gave  it  a  grave  regard,  and  compli- 
mented Miss  Carruthers  on  the  good  judgment  which  she 
had  displayed  in  arranging  all  the  complex  details  of  her 
purpose ;  and  then  he  went  on  to  speak  of  the  home  at 
Tuxbury,  and  all  the  disappointment  which  the  whole 
arrangement  must  encounter  from  the  family  there. 

Marjorie  frankly  admitted  and  deplored  the  separation 
"from  that  darling  Eleanor  whom  she  loved  with  her 
whole  heart.  In  fact,  the  leaving  her,  when  it  came  to 
that,  would  cost  Marjorie  a  terrible  struggle,  but  for  all 
that  she  must  go," — her  voice  low,  the  doctor  noticed, 
the  face  deadly  resolute  as  she  uttered  those  last  words. 

"  But,"  continued  the  doctor,  choosing  his  words  very 
carefully,  "you  have  given  me  no  sufficient  reason  for 


224  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

leaving  them  all  thus  suddenly  and  absolutely.  I 
thought,  Marjorie,  that  Tuxbury,  it  had  come  to  be  un- 
derstood on  all  sides,  was  your  home  now,  and  that, 
since  one  night,  a  new  tie  bound  you  and  the  household 
together." 

Marjorie  started  and  winced,  and  for  a  moment  the 
look  in  her  face  as  she  turned  it  on  the  doctor  was  like 
an  animal  driven  to  bay. 

But  his  grave,  frank  eyes  checked  any  vague  sus- 
picion which  might  have  glanced  across  her;  she  burst 
out  swiftly:  "There  is  no  bond  of  that  sort  between 
us.  I  would  not  stay  under  any  roof  a  single  hour  if  its 
inmates  held  me  by  no  other  tie  than  that  of  gratitude, 
although  in  the  wide  world  I  had  no  shelter  beneath 
which  to  lay  my  head." 

Then  the  doctor  knew  that  he  had  touched  the  secret 
of  this  girl's  desperate  purpose  to  go  abroad  and  leave 
them  all.  It  was  like  her. 

But  no  look  betrayed  the  old  man's  thought.  He 
even  spoke  to  his  chestnut  mare,  who  was  pricking  up 
her  ears  a  little  at  some  object  on  the  road :  "  There, 
Pluck,  there  !  You  and  I  won't  show  the  white  feather!  " 
Then  he  replied  quietly  to  Miss  Carruthers  :  "  But  I 
should  fancy  that  affection  —  such  affection,  for  exam- 
ple, as  yours  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh's  —  would  only  make 
the  gratitude  sweeter  to  be  given  and  received.  I  have 
never  found  it  hard  to  owe  a  debt  to  those  whom  I  really 
loved,  Miss  Carruthers.  God  and  his  '  Unspeakable 
Gift,'  have  taught  us  something  there." 

She  was  silent,  all  the  pride  going  out  of  her  face 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  225 

now,  and  he  drove  on,  leaving  his  own  words  to  work 
what  good  they  could  with  her,  and  his  own  face  settling 
into  a  brown  study. 

Dr.  Avery  was  in  a  dilemma,  which  perplexed  even  his 
shrewd  sense  when  it  came  to  seizing  either  horn.  That 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh  was  somehow  at  the  bottom  of  this 
plan  which  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  laid  before  him,  he 
had  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  But,  with  all  that,  he  had 
not  sufficient  data  for  any  positive  judgments.  He  was 
not  sure  of  the  real  state  of  young  Whitmarsh's  affec- 
tions, although,  knowing  what  both  the  man  and  woman 
were,  he  was  strongly  inclined  to  suspect  the  facts  in  the 
case. 

Still,  although  gravely  doubting  the  wisdom  of  Miss 
Carruthers'  present  movement,  he  was  not  absolutely 
sure  that  she  had  not  judged  what  was  best  for  herself. 
The  old  man  looked  at  the  fair,  proud,  beautiful  girl 
by  his  side,  and  his  heart  yearned  over  her  like  the 
heart  of  a  wise  and  tender  father. 

The  matter  was  one  on  which  her  whole  future 
pivoted,  —  a  mistake  or  a  misapprehension  here  would  be 
fatal,  he  reflected ;  and  she,  with  her  sensitive,  tu- 
multuous nature,  was  so  very  liable  to  err.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm:  "Marjorie,  you  have  given  me  a 
singular  proof  of  your  confidence,  not  only  in  my  heart, 
but  in  my  judgment,"  he  said.  "  Grant  me  a  still  further 
one  by  promising  that  for  two  or  three  days,  at  least 
until  I  see  you  again,  you  will  not  make  your  contem- 
plated disclosure  to  anybody." 

Miss  Carruthers  hesitated  :    "I  meant  to  tell  Eleanor 


226  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

to-day,  or,  at  farthest,  to-morrow.  It  seems  as  though  I 
could  riot  rest  until  I  had  got  over  it,  doctor.  Besides, 
I  have  so  little  time  to  complete  my  arrangements. 
But  —  "  glancing  at  his  face  —  "yes,  doctor,  I  promise 
you." 

They  had  come  in  sight  of  the  cottage  after  a  three 
hours'  talk. 

When  he  had  lifted  the  girl  to  the  ground,  the  doctor 
turned  suddenly  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  "The 
blessing  of  an  old  man  be  upon  you,  my  child !  "  he  said, 
with  a  solemn  fervor  in  his  manner  that  struck  her. 
"Be  wise  for  yourself:  remember  you  have  a  heart  and 
a  soul,  and  you  will  make  their  weal  or  woe.  Good-by." 

She  did  not  see  down  into  the  depth  of  the  old 
doctor's  words,  — he  did  not  intend  she  should;  but  he 
meant  they  should  abide  with  her,  as  words  do  sometimes, 
and  Marjorie  Carruthers  went  over  them  a  good  many 
times  that  day  in  her  thoughts. 

As  for  young  Whitmarsh,  during  these  two  weeks 
which  had  elapsed  since  his  return  to  Tuxbury,  all  his 
fine  theories  about  rejected  lovers  had  been  submitted  to 
a  very  thorough  personal  test,  and  he  had  discovered 
that  the  field  for  a  man  to  prove  his  pluck  in  such  cases 
was  not  in  the  daily  presence  of  the  woman  who  had 
refused  him. 

To  do  the  young  man  justice,  he  struggled  bravely ; 
tried  to  throw  himself,  heart  and  soul,  into  business,  and 
talked  mines  and  mills  with  an  energy  that  gave  his 
brother  a  wonderful  impression  of  Ben's  latent  business 
capacities;  and  then  he  tried  books,  settling  himself 


THE   MILLS   OF   TUXBURT.  227 

down  in  the  library  among  the  old  masters  of  Greek  and 
English  which  used  to  delight  his  soul,  but  somehow  the 
fire  and  the  sap  seemed  to  have  died  down  in  his  old 
authors  :  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress,  the  sound  of  her 
soft,  clear  voice,  the  shadow  of  her  passing  figure  on 
threshold  or  window-sill,  shook  his  strong  nerves  in  the 
midst  of  business  or  books.  He  would  find  himself  won- 
dering what  she  was  about,  worrying  himself  over  her 
long  walks,  and  the  slight  wrappings  with  which  the 
careless  creature  encountered  the  changes  of  the  weather. 
He  fretted  himself,  too,  over  what  had  struck  Eleanor,  — 
the  change  in  Miss  Carruthers'  face:  it  had  grown 
white  and  thin  of  late.  Clearly,  the  girl  was  not  well. 

Dr.  Avery,  with  his  clear  physician's  eyes,  had  seen 
that  also ;  but  he  had  not  so  much  as  felt  Miss  Car- 
ruthers' pulse  or  made  a  prescription.  He  had  doubts 
whether,  in  her  case,  the  trouble  did  not  lie  beyond  the 
reach  of  Peruvian  bark  and  Port  wine,  in  which  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh  had  so  much  faith. 

All  these  days  you  may  be  sure  that  Ben  Whitmarsh 
did  not  spare  himself.  Restless,  depressed,  miserably 
athirst  for  change,  and  yet  with  that  perpetual  hanker- 
ing for  a  woman's  presence,  it  was  dreadfully  hard  on 
this  hitherto  careless,  independent,  self-indulgent  fellow. 

With  his  pluck  and  his  pride  constantly  at  war  with 
the  love,  mightier  than  either,  in  his  heart,  the  man  fairly 
cursed  himself  for  a  blundering  fool,  a  spooney,  a  flaccid, 
love-sick  sophomore.  But  curses  did  not  help  his  case, 
as  they  never  did  anybody's. 

He   tried   Miss    Carruthers'   fashion    of  long  walks, 


228  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

tramping  off  by  himself  for  miles  into  the  deep  woods ; 
but  Nature,  like  books  and  business,  seemed  to  have 
grown  utterly  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  to  him.  In 
fact,  the  world  itself  was  empty  to  him ;  sometimes  he 
found  himself  wishing  that  he  was  out  of  it;  life  did  not 
seem  worth  the  living. 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh 
girded  himself  up,  looked  the  facts  in  the  face,  and 
settled  it  that  things  could  go  on  in  this  shape  no  longer. 
I  always  respected  the  man  for  coming  to  that  conclu- 
sion. It  was  the  only  sound  one. 

He  had,  like  Marjorie  Carruthers,  a  nature  to  which 
action  was  a  necessity.  The  strain  upon  him  was  an 
unnatural  one  ;  and  borne  too  long  would  have  been  the 
worse  for  him.  Yet  the  pride  of  young  Whitmarsh 
underwent  a  stinging  sense  of  defeat,-  for  he  had  put  his 
fine  theories  to  the  test,  and  they  had  failed  him.  But 
as  for  living  longer  under  the  same  roof  with  this  woman, 
loving. her  only  of  all  the  world,  hungering  for  her  love 
in  return,  Ben  Whitmarsh  told  himself  it  was  not  to  be 
borne. 

Why,  a  man,  parched  and  dying  on  the  edge  of  a 
desert,  might  as  well  linger  in  the  sight  of  some  green 
oasis,  in  the  very  sound  of  humming  springs  of  cool 
water  which  he  could  not  reach,  as  to  linger  here  in  the 
tantalizing  sight  and  sound  of  Marjorie  Carruthers. 

Evidently,  they  two  could  not  dwell  under  the  same 
roof  together.  He  had  given  the  thing  a  fair  trial  and 
been  worsted. 

Now  the  only  thing  for  him  to  do,  was  to  get  as  far 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY.  229 

away  from  the  woman  as  possible ;  the  wrench  which 
that  thought  cost  him  measuring  the  power  of  will  which 
it  would  demand  to  take  this  final  separation. 

Once  away  from  Marjorie,  reasoned  young  Whitmarsh, 
he  could  probably  regain  his  old  self;  near  her,  there 
was  no  hope  of  this. 

A  fierce  hankering  for  the  old  nomad  life,  for  wild, 
boundless  spaces  of  land  and  sea,  for  horizons  of  desert 
or  plain,  for  the  old  free,  joyous,  roving  days,  stung 
through  him  now  as  lion  and  leopard  might  be  stung, 
tramping  up  and  down  the  narrow  limits  of  their  cage. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  He  must  cut  loose  from 
Tuxbury  and  all  the  sweet  torture  of  its  associations 
without  delay ;  and  then  came  up  the  thought  of  John 
and  Eleanor.  He  knew  well  enough  what  a  lifelong  dis- 
appointment this  departure  of  his  must  be  to  them  both ; 
it  seemed  as  though  he  were  behaving  like  a  selfish 
brute,  but  he  must  brave  their  pain  and  displeasure  with 
the  rest ;  half  wishing  in  his  despair  and  desperation  that 
the  ruflians  had  done  their  work  that  night  only  a  little 
more  satisfactorily,  and  thus  settled  all  these  ugly  facts  for 
him  forever ;  and  then  he  remembered  that  it  was  Miss 
Carruthers'  fault ;  the  villains  had  done  their  work  per- 
fectly enough. 

When  young  Whitmarsh  had  once  made  up  his  mind 
to  a  course  of  action,  it  was  not  his  nature  to  delay  the 
consummation. 

One  morning,  after  a  hurried  knock  at  the  door,  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh  burst  suddenly  into  her  cousin's  room,  — 
burst  in,  too,  upon  pretty  visions  of  a  Swiss  cottage, 


230  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

with  a  wonderful  background  of  mountains  and  lakes  in 
the  sunshine,  like  wide  sheets  of  silver  blossoms, —  in  the 
midst  of  all  which  that  young  lady's  thoughts  had  been 
hovering  for  the  last  two  hours. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  sat  down  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears  without  speaking  a  single  word. 

"  Why,  Eleanor,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  exclaimed  her 
cousin,  all  her  pretty  visions  swept  off  into  chaos  at  sight 
of  the  other's  distress. 

"  Ben  is  going  off  again.  It  seems  as  though  it  would 
break  my  heart,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

Marjorie  actually  grew  pale  to  the  lips. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Eleanor  dear  ?  " 

"It's  just  that;  I  can't  tell  what  has  got  into  the 
fellow ;  but  he  is  immovable  as  a  rock.  John  sat  up 
nearly  all  night  trying  to  argue  him  out  of  going.  It's 
the  cruellest  disappointment,  for  he  had  set  his  heart  on 
having  Ben  go  into  the  Mills  with  him.  But  you  might 
as  well  reason  or  plead  with  the  winds.  He's  bent  on 
going  at  once.  I  only  learned  it  this  morning  after 
breakfast,  and  I've  been  trying  to  persuade  him  to  stay 
with  us,  for  the  last  two  hours.  John's  cut  to  the  quick, 
for  Ben's  all  that's  left  him  beside  me  and  baby.  I  relied 
on  having  him  with  us  always;  "  and  the  tender-hearted 
little  woman  choked  and  sobbed  again. 

As  for  Marjorie,  she  got  up  and  walked  the  room,  with 
a  white,  stunned  face,  much  like  one  who  has  had  a 
terrible  blow;  but  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  troubles  to  notice  anything  singular 
in  Marjorie' s  manner  at  this  time. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  231 

'•Where  is  he  going  —  what  is  he  going  for?" 
stammered  the  latter. 

"  Oh,  he  says  the  fire  and  fever  of  the  old  roving  life 
have  waked  up  in  his  blood  again,  and  that  he  must  be 
off.  I  can  see  well  enough  that  John's  distress  and 
mine  hurts  him  terribly  ;  but  he  insists  that  he  should 
be  good  for  nothing  if  he  stayed, —  a  mere  useless  weight 
of  nerves  and  muscles  ;  he's  tried,  too,  he  affirms,  to 
put  himself  into  business,  but  it  wouldn't  work  any  more 
than  it  would  with  a  wild  savage ;  so  he's  made  up  his 
mind  to  set  off  for  Europe,  and  perhaps  for  Asia;  he 
doesn't  know  for  how  long.  When  the  fever  is  cooled 
he  shall  come  back  again,  but  it  may  take  years  of 
roving  and  tramping  to  do  that.  I  can  see  John  just 
gives  up  his  brother  for  anything  like  a  settled,  common- 
sense  life,  and  it's  only  less  hard  to  bear  than  his  death 
would  have  been  last  winter ;  "  and  again  the  lady 
choked  and  sobbed. 

As  for  Marjorie,  the  thing  was  like  a  thunder-clap  to 
her.  It  broke  right  into  the  midst  of  her  own  cherished 
plans,  for  of  course  it  would  be  simple  outrage  to  talk 
of  leaving  Eleanor  at  this  juncture. 

She  could  not  see  her  way  clearly ;  and  in  her  doubt 
and  bewilderment  walked  the  room,  her  face  dark  and 
pallid,  and  underneath  some  awful  pain  clutching  at  her 
heart-strings.  Yet  what  was  Benjamin  Whitmarsh's 
going  or  coming  to  her,  any  further  than  so  far  as  it  in- 
terfered with  her  plans  ? 

In  this  maze  of  perplexity  and  pain,  Marjorie  kept 
asking  herself  how  she  ought  to  act,  —  whether  there  was 


232  THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

not  something  for  her  to  do  ?  She  had  grave  doubts  in 
her  own  mind  whether  a  talk  she  and  young  Whitmarsh 
had  together  on  that  evening  before  he  went  to  the  sea- 
side had  not  something  to  do  with  his  going  abroad. 

Although  of  course  he  had  no  stronger  feeling  in  the 
matter  than  a  desire  to  do  his  utmost  for  the  woman  who 
had  saved  his  life,  still,  men  were  proud,  unreasonable 
creatures ;  he  might  have  some  feeling  about  remaining 
under  the  roof  of  the  woman  who  had  refused  him. 

If  Marjorie  were  only  certain  that  matter  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  this  absurb  flight  of  his,  she  would  at 
once  announce  her  own  intentions;  but,  after  all,  it 
might  be  as  he  said ;  the  native  savage  instincts  which 
he  possessed  in  common  with  his  sex  might  have  de- 
veloped into  a  habit,  with  Ben  Whitmarsh,  that  he  could 
not  or  would  not  surmount. 

So  Marjorie  reasoned,  pacing  her  room,  not  knowing 
how  to  act  at  this  juncture,  and  Eleanor  sobbed  beside 
her,  the  former  pitying  her  cousin  with  all  her  heart, 
and  with  a  half-guilty  feeling  too,  as  though  she  was 
responsible  for  the  distress  into  which  the  household  was 
plunged.  With  all  the  rest,  she  was  as  angry  as  possible 
with  young  Whitmarsh  for  going  off,  regarded  it  as  the 
absurdest,  most  unreasonable  fool's  chase  in  the  world ; 
never  thinking  that  in  the  eyes  of  most  sensible  people 
it  would  not  at  all  match  her  own  for  its  general  roman- 
tic, visionary,  unpractical  features. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURT. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THREE  days  had  passed.  They  had  been  gloomy  ones 
at  the  household  of  Tuxbury,  although  the  family  had 
tried  to  rally  somewhat  from  the  stunning  effect  which 
the  announcement  of  Ben's  projected  departure  had  had 
upon  everybody. 

But  for  all  that,  the  meals  had  passed  off  almost 
silently,  despite  young  Whitmarsh's  rather  spasmodic 
attempts  to  treat  the  matter  lightly,  declaring  himself 
spoiled  for  civilization  and  society,  fit  only  for  tent  and 
wild  horse,  or  at  best  a  hammock  upon  the  sea.  John 
and  Eleanor  ought  to  be  thankful  they  were  about  to  get 
rid  of  such  a  savage. 

But  for  all  the  jokes,  the  sight  of  his  brother's  and 
sister's  faces  at  this  time  was  more  than  Ben  Whitmarsh 
could  easily  bear.  The  old  tough  family  tie  tugged  at 
his  heart-strings,  and  the  misery  he  occasioned  added 
to  the  general  wretchedness  of  his  mood  at  this  time. 
As  for  Miss  Carruthers  and  himself,  one  watching  nar- 
rowly would  have  fancied  that  the  two  avoided  each 
other  these  days. 

Eleanor,  absorbed  with  her  own  trouble,  had  quite 
ceased  her  anxieties  over  the  mutual  relations  of  the  two 
people  whom  she  loved  so  well.  This  was  the  end  of  all 
that  rosy  programme  of  honeymoons  and  wedding  favors  ! 


234  THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY. 

It  just  made  the  little  woman  sick  to  think  of  Ben's 
plunging  off  into  the  great  world  again,  and  he  hardly 
well  of  that  dreadful  wound. 

About  Miss  Carruthers'  approval  of  his  purpose,  Ben 
Whitinarsh  was  quite  uncertain.  That  young  lady  would 
probably  be  indifferent  to  the  matter  only  so  far  as  it 
concerned  her  cousin.  No  doubt,  therefore,  she  would 
take  Eleanor's  view  of  the  whole ;  and  she  might  pos- 
sibly think  —  a  bitter  smile  at  work  under  his  beard  — 
that  it  could  not  be  altogether  satisfactory  to  a  discarded 
lover  to  live  in  such  constant  propinquity  to  the  woman 
who  had  refused  him. 

But  that  young  lady  was  certainly  not  to  be  envied 
at  this  time.  Ever  since  she  had  learned  of  this  antici- 
pated departure  of  her  cousin's  brother-in-law,  she  had 
been  as  restless  and  wretched  as  possible.  '  She  fully 
agreed  with  Eleanor  in  all  their  talks  over  this  "most 
unaccountable  and  reckless  of  freaks;"  insisted  that 
young  Whitmarsh  was  by  no  means  sufficiently  recovered 
to  make  with  impunity  such  demands  on  his  strength. 
As  for  her  own  plans,  of  course  nothing  could  be  said  or 
thought  about  these  for  the  present. 

So  Miss  Carruthers  kept  her  room  mostly,  and  spent 
her  days,  and  sleepless  nights  also,  in  miserable  brooding 
over  young  Whitmarsh's  course,  angry  with  him  to  a 
degree  vastly  disproportioned  to  his  offence ;  in  fact,  one 
must  be  puzzled  to  say  in  what  that  consisted  toward 
Miss  Carruthers,  while  the  unaccountable  young  woman 
was  cold  and  silent  as  an  iceberg  in  his  presence.  So 
the  three  days  had  ground  all  their  heavy  hours  past, 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXHURT.  235 

and  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  was  intending  to  leave  the  next 
morning  on  his  wild-goose  chase  to  the  antipodes,  as 
everybody  regarded  it. 

The  elder  brother  felt  that  he  had  done  all  that  man 
could  do ;  when  arguments  and  entreaties  failed  he  had 
tried  reproaches,  salt  and  bitter  enough  as  he  grew 
thoroughly  angry.  Ben  took  everything  in  good  part. 
His  patience,  or  indifference,  or  whatever  it  was,  so  un- 
like his  easily-roused  self,  —  for  Ben  had  his  share  of 
the  family  temper,  —  quite  amazed  the  elder.  Whether 
Ben  was  morally,  mentally,  or  physically  diseased,  his 
brother  could  not  tell.  At  any  rate  there  seemed  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  let  him  have  his  own  way,  wild  and  reck- 
less as  that  seemed. 

Everybody  knew  that  the  young  man  expected  to 
leave  on  the  following  morning;  but  he  looked  forward 
with  so  much  discomfort  to  the  parting,  and  these  last 
days  had  been  so  miserable,  that  he  resolved  that  after- 
noon to  end  the  whole  thing  at  once.  He  would  make 
some  excuse  for  getting  off  that  night,  — it  seemed  as 
though  every  additional  mile  which  stretched  between 
him  and  Tuxbury  would  be  so  much  weight  off  his  soul. 

So  he  had  settled  everything  before  he  had  come 
home  that  night,  even  to  the  ordering  his  trunks  for- 
warded the  next  day. 

He  had  requested  them  not  to  wait  supper  for  him 
that  night,  and  the  meal  was  over,  to  his  relief,  and  his 
brother  was  out  and  Eleanor  upstairs  with  baby,  when 
he  came  in. 

Miss  Carruthers  had  been  fighting  some  dreadful  pain 


236  THE   MILLS    OF  TUX  BURY. 

all  day.  It  had  left  her  pale  and  exhausted  to-night ; 
and  she  went  out  in  the  grounds  and  seated  herself  upon 
a  terrace  facing  a  thick  hedge, —  below  that,  the  garden 
with  its  flower-beds,  and  winding  walks,  and  beautiful 
shrubberies. 

It  was  a  wonderful  night  in  the  first  week  of  Septem- 
ber. In  the  west  the  sun  had  just  gone  down  in  a  blaze 
of  splendor. 

Marjorie  thought  of  to-morrow  and  of  what  was  to 
come,  but  it  took  her  breath  away ;  she  vaguely  won- 
dered whether  she  should  live  through  it. 

In  a  few  moments  Ben  Whitmarsh  came  along.  He 
had  found  that  less  than  an  hour  remained  to  him,  and 
was  taking  a  last  walk  through  the  grounds. 

The  man  and  woman  were  surprised  enough  to  come 
upon  each  other  here,  but  they  went  through  their  meet- 
ing creditably  enough,  exchanging  a  few  remarks  about 
the  weather  and  the  evening,  and  then  Ben  Whitmarsh 
marched  on,  leaving  Marjorie  alone  on  the  terrace,  facing 
the  sunset. 

As  he  walked  on  he  reflected  that  the  parting  might 
as  well  be  got  through  with  now  as  any  time.  Then  the 
hardest  of  all  would  be  over  before  he  went  into  the 
house  to  face  his  relatives. 

So,  in  about  five  minutes,  to  the  lady's  surprise, 
young  "Whitmarsh  returned  and  found  her  sitting  there 
as  he  had  left  her.  He  would  have  noticed,  at  any  other 
time,  the  utter  weariness  of  her  position,  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes,  full  of  some  dumb  pain, 
facing  the  sunset. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  237 

"  Miss  Carruthers,"  going  at  once  to  the  point/'  I  have 
concluded  to  leave  to-night,  instead  of  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, and  therefore  I  have  come  now  to  say  good- by  to  you." 

"To-night!  to-night !"  she  gasped,  looking  him  in 
the  face,  and  it  seemed  as  though  she  was  trying  to  take 
in  the  meaning  of  his  words. 

"  Yes,"  speaking  very  rapidly.  "  Partings  are 
always  insufferable  things,  and  this  one  will  be  suffi- 
ciently painful  to  me.  I  want  it  over  ;  so,  if  you  please, 
we  will  say  good-by  here.  I  suppose  you  wish  me  a 
prosperous  journey,  Miss  Carruthers?"  and  he  gave 
her  his  hand. 

She  had  risen  up  before  this,  but  she  stood  as  mo- 
tionless as  a  sphinx.  The  hand  she  gave  him  was  cold 
and  benumbed. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Whitmarsh  ;  I  wish  you  a  prosperous 
journey  ;  "  but  the  words  seemed  to  drop  cold  and  life- 
less like  hailstones  from  her  lips ;  much  as  one  might 
repeat  a  sentence  after  another,  without  attaching  any 
meaning  to  it. 

He  held  the  soft,  cold,  numb  hand  one  moment : 
"If  at  any  time  in  the  future  there  should  come  a 
chance  for  me  to  serve  you,  I  need  not  say  I  shall  be  both 
ready  and  glad  to  do  it,  and  I  pray  you  to  let  me  know, 
though  we  are  as  far  apart  as  the  world  can  make  us." 

"Yes,"  hardly  above  her  breath;  she  knew  what 
that  meant, —  that  old,  loathsome  notion  of  gratitude; 
but  she  hardly  felt  angry  then  ;  only  it  seemed  to  her  as 
though  if  she  uttered  another  word  it  would  have  died 
in  an  awful  shriek. 


238  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXDTJRY. 

"  Good-by,  Marjorie  Carruthers,"  and  he  dropped  her 
hand  and  went  on.  So  it  was  over  ! 

At  the  end  of  the  walk  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
There  she  stood  just  as  he  had  left  her,  —  she  could  not 
have  stirred  since, —  the  fine  white  profile,  the  eyes  still 
turned  to  the  west,  something  unutterably  mournful  and 
hopeless  in  the  figure  of  the  woman  standing  there, 
like  one  still  and  stunned  with  a  mighty  grief.  In  the 
tumult  of  his  own  anguish  Ben  Whitmarsh  did  not  think 
that,  but  the  sight  of  the  still  mournful  figure  half  took 
from  him  his  long  self-control. 

All  the  past,  all  the  loss  and  misery  of  the  present, 
rushed  upon  him,  and,  hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was 
doing,  this  man  went  straight  back,  and  standing  still 
beside  her,  said  to  Marjorie  Carruthers:  "  I  would  to 
God  you  had  left  me  to  die  when  they  laid  me  before 
you  that  night,  instead  of  dragging  me  back  to  life  and 
this  long  misery,  Marjorie  Carruthers  !  —  I  would  to  God 
you  had  !  "  Then  he  turned  and  went  away  again. 

A  look  of  intensest  amazement  supplanted  the  dumb 
hopelessness  in  the  woman's  face.  She  put  her  hand  to 
her  forehead  in  a  bewildered  sort  of  way ;  she  drew  a 
swift  breath  or  two,  and  moved  forward  a  step  toward 
the  man's  figure  disappearing  far  up  the  twilight  at  the 
end  of  the  walk,  then  drew  back  again  doubtfully ;  and 
there  were  only  the  stars  which  had  now  begun  to  make 
glad  the  sky,  and  God  over  all,  to  see  the  bewilderment 
and  anguish  at  work  in  the  face  of  Marjorie  Carruthers 
that  moment. 

"What  did  he  mean?  — what  did  he  mean?"  she 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBVRT.  239 

muttered  to  herself ;  and  afterward  a  flash  of  desperate 
resolve  came  into  her  white  face  and  drove  out  every 
other  expression  in  a  breath.  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had 
just  turned  from  the  terrace-walk  under  the  long  arched 
roof  of  the  grapery  which  led  toward  the  house,  when  a 
woman's  dress  rustled  beside  him,  and  Marjorie  Car- 
ruthers  confronted  him  there  in  the  arched  walk,  so  dark 
with  the  shadows  of  the  vines  and  the  twilight  that  they 
could  only  see  each  other's  faces. 

"Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  you  said  just  now  that  you 
wished  I  had  left  you  to  die  when  they  laid  you  before 
me  that  night?  What  did  you  mean?"  Her  voice 
rapid  and  breathless,  but  something  in  it  —  I  cannot 
tell  what  —  that  would  have  made  you  feel  it  was  a 
question  of  life  or  death. 

Ben  Whitmarsh  stood  still:  "  I  meant  just  what  I 
said,  Marjorie  Carruthers.  How  can  you  ask  me,  know- 
ing what  passed  between  us  one  night  not  long  ago?  " 

Her  face  white  as  ever,  all  its  life  in  the  dark  splendor 
of  the  eyes  on  his  face.  "  I  do  not  see,"  —  she  spoke 
half  to  herself  now,  — "I  cannot  understand  what  all 
that  had  to  do  with  wishing  I  had  not  done  what  I  did 
to  give  back  your  life  to  you." 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  looked  with  his  level  gaze 
straight  into  the  white  face  before  him.  I  cannot  tell 
whether  there  was  more  of  pain  or  scorn  in  his  voice  as 
he  answered :  "  Marjorie  Carruthers,  are  you  a  woman, 
and  ask  me  that  question  ?  I  am  a  man,  but  you  have 
taught  me  that  my  love,  spurned  and  rejected,  was  more 
to  me  than  my  life,  —  than  my  life  !  " 


240  THE  MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY. 

She  stood  still,  but  you  could  not  help  knowing  that 
some  mighty  convulsion  shook  her  to  the  centre,  and 
held  back  from  her  all  power  of  speech  ;  then  her  words 
dropped  out  slowly,  one  by  one,  as  though  each  cost  her 
a  terrible  effort:  "That  was  not  love;  you  know  it  as 
well  as  I ;  only  gratitude.  It  was  a  cruel  wrong  you 
did  me,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  !  " 

"  Gratitude!  "  a  sharp,  quick  laugh  grated  upon  her 
ears.  "Did  you  think  that, —did  you  think  that?" 
he  cried  suddenly.  Then  the  next  moment  he  bad  seized 
her  arm  and  dragged  her  out  from  the  black  shadows 
into  the  light.  He  was  the  stronger  of  the  two  now; 
he  looked  at  the  proud  woman  with  some  stern  scorn  in 
his  face  that  almost  frightened  her,  brave  as  she  was. 
"  Marjorie  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  saved  my  life,  and  out  of 
my  gratitude  I  would  have  given  you  mine,  if  need  were, 
in  return;  but  I  would  not  have  done  either  you  or 
myself  that  foul  injustice  to  ask  you  to  be  my  wife 
because  of  any  debt  I  owed  you ;  not  —  God  is  my  wit- 
ness —  though  you  had  saved  my  life  a  dozen  times 
over." 

She  swayed  slowly  with  some  inward  storm,  where 
she  stood  before  him.  She  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "0  my  God  —  my  God!"  she  cried,  turning 
in  that  awful  crisis  of  her  weakness,  when  heart  and  soul 
failed  her,  when  the  light  of  the  great  truth  broke  upon 
her,  and  she  saw  where  her  pride,  her  folly,  her  rashness 
and  mistake  had  driven  her ;  and  something  of  all  she 
saw  and  felt  was  in  that  cry  with  which  her  human 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBUfiY.  241 

woman's  heart  turned  now  to  the  power  and  love 
mightier  than  herself. 

That  cry  struck  to  the  soul  of  Ben  Whitmarsh,  — 
bore  down  all  the  sternness  and  wrath  which  had  wrought 
in  him  a  moment  before  toward  the  woman  of  his  love. 
He  drew  closer  to  her.  In  a  moment  he  spoke :  "If 
you  had  known,  Marjorie,  should  you  have  answered 
me  as  you  did?"  and  then  his  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still,  waiting  for  her  answer. 

There  was  a  silence  between  these  two ;  the  low,  soft 
crying  of  winds  among  the  shrubberies  around  them, 
gathering  the  night  dews.  Then  she  turned  toward  him. 

"Benjamin!"  she  said,  "Benjamin!"  It  was  a  low 
cry,  hardly  above  a  whisper ;  but  all  through  it  throbbed 
the  heart  of  Marjorie  Carruthers,  —  its  hunger  and 
loneliness,  the  anguish  that  had  been,  the  joy  that  was, 
the  doubt  and  fear,  and  the  tenderness  quivering  through 
all  these ;  and  again  the  winds  cried  softly  in  the  shrub- 
beries, gathering  the  night  dews. 

"  Marjorie  !  "  he  said,  "  Marjorie  !  " 

Then  he  put  his  arms  around  her  and  drew  her  to 
him. 

In  the  library  at  the  cottage  at  Tuxbury,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh  waited  together. 

It  had  been  a  miserable  evening  for  both  of  them,  and 
every  minute  seemed  to  grate  slowly  along  its  seconds,  as 
they  listened  for  the  swift,  ringhig  footfall  which  never 
came. 

Ben  was  to  leave  early  in  the  morning,  and  it  did 
seem  as  though  his  absence  at  this  juncture  was  adding 


242  THE  MILLS    OF   TUXBURY. 

insult  to  injury,  —  was,  in  short,  the  one  drop  which 
made  the  cup  overflow. 

The  lady  kept  going  to  the  window,  and  looking  out 
as  the  darkness  grew,  and  walking  restlessly  back  and 
forth,  with  the  tears  coming  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  when  Ben  is  gone  and  it's  all  over,1' 
she  said  to  her  husband. 

"  So  shall  I,  Eleanor." 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  never  known  John  take  any- 
thing quite  so  much  to  heart  as  he  had  this  matter  of 
Ben's  leaving  them. 

He  sat  now  by  the  writing-table,  playing  sometimes 
nervously,  with  the  sealing-wax  or  the  paper-weights, 
but  evidently  without  the  faintest  idea  of  what  he  was 
doing,  his  face  gloomy  as  possible,  muttering  some  of  his 
thoughts  out  loud  occasionally :  ' '  Fool !  madness 
from  beginning  to  end  !  Half  a  mind  to  throttle  the  fel- 
low !  ' '  and  things  of  that  sort. 

Mrs,  Whitmarsh  grew  more  indignant  than  ever  with 
her  brother-in-law,  every  time  she  looked  at  her  husband. 
"John,  you  dear  fellow,  I  do  feel  sorry  for  you.  As  for 
Ben,  he's  treated  you  shamefully,"  she  said  a  dozen 
times,  and  she  began  to  feel  that  she  never  wanted  to  set 
eyes  on  the  obstinate,  tantalizing  fellow  again.  As  for 
Miss  Carruthers,  her  cousin  fancied  that  young  lady  had 
gone  up  to  her  room  after  supper,  and  very  likely  would 
not  show  herself  until  the  next  morning. 

She  knew  enough  of  Marjorie's  imprudent  drafts  on 
her  strength.  One  was,  sitting  up  and  reading,  when 
the  notion  seized  her,  until  long  after  midnight. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  243 

So  the  hours  wore  on.  Mr.  Whitmarsh  went  two  or 
three  times  to  the  door,  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
road,  —  more  as  a  kind  of  relief  to  his  general  feeling  of 
uneasiness  than  with  any  real  expectation  of  seeing  his 
delinquent  brother,  while  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  grew  more 
explosive,  as  the  night  deepened,  at  her  brother-in-law's 
absence. 

"  His  conduct  is  most  unbrotherly  and  ungrateful.  It's 
not  to  be  borne.  If  I  were  you,  John.  Ben  should  not  go 
off  without  having  one  piece  of  my  mind  to  carry  across 
the  ocean." 

''I've  given  the  scamp  a  good  many  already,"  he  an- 
swered. 

At  last  —  it  must  have  been  nearly  ten  o'clock  —  the 
library  door  opened,  and  Ben  Whitmarsh  walked  in,  and 
there  actually  was  Miss  Carruthers  leaning  on  his  arm ! 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  was  struck  dumb.  She  sat  staring 
at  her  brother-in-law  and  her  cousin,  almost  as  though 
she  had  confronted  two  spectres  from  the  grave  ;  and  as 
for  her  husband,  the  man  was  equally  taken  by  surprise ; 
he  looked  from  one  face  to  the  other.  "  Ben  —  Marjorie, 
what  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  cried. 

"It  means,  dear  old  fellow,  that  I  have  concluded  to- 
night that  I  had  better  stay  at  home  with  you  all !  " 

There  was  some  half-repressed  triumph  in  the  tones, 
which  each  one  felt. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  rose  up  now  ;  she  went  close  to  her 
cousin.  The  little  lady  held  her  breath,  looking  into 
that  beautiful  face,  never  so  beautiful  as  now,  with  the 
new  tenderness  and  joy  that  shone  out  of  it,  "  until,"  as 


244  THR   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  afterward  declared,  "the  sight  almost 
frightened  her." 

"  Marjorie  !  —  Marjorie  !  "  she  stammered. 

"Yes,  Eleanor,  he  is  going  to  stay,  because  he  has 
learned  to-night  that  I  could  not  live  without  him;  "  her 
voice  swaying  along  the  words,  but  the  unutterable  joy 
holding  every  tone. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  turned  to  her  husband,  fairly  dazed 
with  excess  of  feeling.  "  Are  we  awake,  — you  and  I, 
John?  "  she  asked; 

"I  think  we  are,  my  dear,"  the  truth  beginning 
slowly  to  dawn  on  him,  —  so  marvellous  a  truth,  so 
wholly  unlooked  for,  that  he  was  nearly  as  stunned  as  his 
wife. 

Then  Miss  Carruthers  spoke  again ;  as  frank  and  loyal 
in  her  love  as  she  had  been  hard  and  cruel  in  her 
pride :  — 

"John  —  Eleanor,  forgive  me.  In  my  pride  and 
folly  I  had  nearly  driven  him  to  the  end  of  the  world, 
and  yet,  if  he  had  gone,  I  believe  that  I  must  have 
died." 

Could  it  be  Marjorie  Carruthers  who  spoke  those 
words,  with  such  humility  and  with  such  exultation  all 
through  them  ? 

Then  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  understood.  "0  Ben  — 
Marjorie !  "  she  sobbed  out,  and  the  two  women  clung 
to  each  other. 

"It  is  the  happiest  hour  of  my  life,  Marjorie.  It  is 
the  one  thing  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart.  I  had 
dreamed,  and  hoped,  and  planned,  and  then  I  fancied  it 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBVRY.  245 

bad  all  gone  to  the  winds,"  laughed  and  cried  the  little 
woman,  hugging  first  her  brother-in-law  and  then  her 
cousin. 

"I  never  was  so  completely  sold  in  my  life!"  ex- 
claimed John  Whitmarsh ;  hiding,  after  the  manner  of 
men,  the  depth  of  his  feeling  under  a  jest.  "  Ben  and 
Marjorie,  how  did  this  come  about?  " 

"  It  is  such  a  long  story  to  tell,  dear  John,"  said  Mar- 
jorie ;  "  but  it  was  my  fault  —  altogether  mine." 

"It  was  a  misapprehension  on  both  sides,  and  it  had 
nearly  proved  fatal  to  both  of  us,"  said  young  Whitmarsh. 
"  0  John  —  Eleanor,  I  have  loved  her  so  long  and  so 
hopelessly,  and  now  this  great  happiness  has  come  before 
me  so  suddenly,  I  tremble  lest  I  shall  make  a  fool  of  my- 
self." 

"  A  fool  of  yourself  before  the  woman  you  love,  and 
Eleanor,  and  me,  Ben  !  "  said  his  brother,  and  there 
were  actually  tears  in  the  strong  man's  eyes.  "  I  wish 
you  joy  —  I  bless  you  both." 

"So  do  I,"  added  his  wife.  "Why,  John,  I  don't 
believe  I  was  any  happier  on  the  night  you  proposed  to 
me!" 

But  of  course,  all  that  was  said  by  these  people  in  the 
library  at  Tuxbury  would  make  my  chapter  endless; 
there  was  no  sleep  for  them  that  night. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  had  a  story  to  tell  these,  her  best 
friends,  and  she  did  it,  not  sparing  herself,  nor  the  pride 
which  had  wrought  so  much  anguish  for  herself,  so  much 
misery  for  others ;  and  when  Ben  Whitmarsh  would 
have  come  to  her  rescue,  she  would  not  let  him. 


246  THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBURT. 

"How  much  better  God  has  been  to  me  than  I  de- 
served, to  answer  me  like  this !  "  and  her  hand  shaded 
the  eyes  which  held  great  tears  of  joy ;  and  while  she 
spoke  the  gray  cold  dawn  stole  softly  upon  the  white 
hill-tops  of  Tuxbury. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  247 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Two  or  three  wonderfully  pleasant  weeks  have  gone 
by  under  the  low  roof  of  the  workman's  dwelling  in  the 
settlement  at  Tuxbury. 

As  for  Berry,  she  was  as  happy,  all  this  time,  as  a 
bobolink  on  some  summer  morning,  all  dew  and  sunshine, 
sparkling  and  blossoming  air.  Night  and  day  the  child's 
heart  and  brain  were  busy  with  the  home  far  beyond 
the  sea,  —  the  home  under  the  great  mountains  in  the 
green  valleys  beside  the  lakes.  She  fancied  the  purple 
waters  glancing  in  the  lights  like  vast  sheets  of  violets. 
She  thought  of  the  beautiful  lady,  fair  and  gracious  as  a 
princess,  with  whom  she  was  to  dwell,  and  Berry's 
imagination  —  it  was  a  little  unsteady  with  mounting  its 
sixteenth  birthday,  you  must  remember  —  grew  with 
what  it  fed  on,  got  a  little  intoxicated,  and  ran  riot 
through  this  radiant  paradise  that  stood  shining  and 
beckoning  a  little  way  off  against  her  future  as,  alas  !  all 
our  paradises  do.  To  quote  her  own  vivid  summing  up 
of  her  state  of  mind  at  this  time,  "  She  was  so  happy  it 
was  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  sleep  nights." 

A  wonderful  change,  too,  had  come  over  the  young 
workman.  He  was  quite  himself  again,  Berry  felt, 
fairly  hugging  herself  with  delight  at  that  thought ;  had 
been  indeed  ever  since  the  day  that  Berry  had  told  him 


248  THE   MILLS   OF   TUXBUXY. 

about  Miss  Carruthers'  visit,  and  the  secret  project 
which  that  young  lady  was  bent  on  carrying  out  with 
the  help  of  this  brother  and  sister. 

Hardy  had  drunk  in  every  word,  with  the  astonish- 
ment growing  wider  and  wider  in  his  broad  face,  until  it 
seemed  as  though.,  when  she  got  through,  the  big,  clumsy 
fellow  was  almost  ready  to  take  to  frisking  about  the 
room  for  amazement  and  joy. 

There  was  something  half  pathetic,  half  comic  to 
Berry  in  her  big  brother's  devotion  to  Miss  Carruthers ; 
only  the  girl  herself  was  so  devout  a  worshipper  of  that 
young  woman  that  any  amount  of  adoration  at  that 
shrine  seemed  hardly  unnatural.  Then  Berry  was  not 
used  to  puzzling  her  bright  wits  over  abstract  mysteries 
and  recondite  matters  in  general.  They  busied  them- 
selves with  the  concrete  and  actual,  and  she  was  satisfied 
with  the  fact  that  Hardy  entered  into  all  her  plans  and 
fancies  with  an  animation  and  eagerness  which  he  had 
hardly  shown  in  his  life  before, —  certainly  never  since 
that  dreadful  last  winter,  which  Berry,  like  the  philoso- 
pher and  Christian  which  she  was,  put  resolutely  behind 
her,  saying  to  herself,  "  The  summer  has  come,  and  the 
.birds,  and  the  flowers,  and  they  don't  any  of  them  mind 
the  snows  and  the  storms  of  last  winter ;  and  so  I  won't 
mind  my  troubles  either,  but  be  glad  and  happy  in  the 
pleasant  times  that  have  come." 

By  a  sort  of  tacit  mutual  consent,  Hardy  and  she 
never  talked  of  their  troubles.  Berry  had  an  unex- 
plained feeling  that  the  subject  would  not  bear  touching. 
She  had  never  quite  forgotten  the  look  in  her  brother's 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBVRT.  249 

face  when  he  left  her  at  the  door  on  that  morning  of  his 
first  return  to  the  Furnace.  It  was  not  her  temperament 
to  dwell  on  the  dark  side  of  things ;  but  still  any  associa- 
tion would  easily  recall  that  look  to  her  remembrance, 
never  without  a  kind  of  shiver  and  an  uneasy  half-con- 
sciousness that  something  lay  behind  the  wild  misery  of 
that  stare  to  which  she  had  never  penetrated. 

Hardy  Shumway  was  never  much  of  a  talker,  but  he 
really  bore  considerable  share  in  the  conversation  that 
was  constantly  going  on,  at  this  time,  over  the  castle  in 
Spain,  which  had  all  of  a  sudden  opened  its  shining  front 
to  these  too.  He  was  full  of  plans  about  what  he  was 
to  do,  and  his  brown  moon-face  would  fire  up  as  he  said, 
''I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  her,  Berry.  Miss  Car- 
ruthers  couldn't  a'  found  anybody  who'll  look  out  for 
her,  and  be  ready  to  spend  himself,  heart  and  soul,  for 
her  happiness  as  I  will.  The  work' 11  come  easy,  doin' 
it  for  her." 

"  That's  just  what  I  think,  Hardy ;  one  of  her  smiles 
will  make  it  all  like  May ;  and  won't  I  take  pains  and 
be  real  smart,  and  do  my  best  for  the  dear,  sweet,  beauti- 
ful lady?" 

When  she  went  on  in  this  style,  Hardy  would  look  at 
her  with  something  in  his  eyes,  —  Berry  could  not  tell 
what,  and  she  settled  it  in  her  mind  "  that  he  always 
was  a  little  queer;  it  was  just  his  way."  One  thing 
she  was  certain, —  he  had  never  been  so  habitually  kind 
and  thoughtful  of  his  little  sister  as  he  was  these  days. 

After  he  had  smoked  his  pipe  at  night,  he  would  come 
into  the  house  and  sit  down  in  his  bio;  chair  near  the 


250  THE   MILLS    OF   TDXKVHY. 

window,  and  very  soon  after  that  Berry's  lively  little 
tongue  loosened  itself,  for,  of  course,  it  kept  Miss  Car- 
ruthers'  secret  sacred,  and  that  fact  doubly  enhanced  the 
delight  of  the  evening  talk  with  Hardy ;  and  how  the 
big  fellow  would  listen  and  enter  into  all  her  plans  and 
laugh  over  her  little  jokes  and  sometimes  help  them 
along  too,  for  he  had  a  dry  humor  of  his  own  ;  and  some- 
times Berry  would  draw  up  a  little  covered  stool  to  his 
side  and  lean  her  head  down  on  his  knee,  just  as  she 
used  to  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  after  the  mother  died, 
and  the  child  had  a  dumb  sense  of  loss  and  lonely  ache 
about  her  heart,  and  Hardy  was  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  left  her  to  love. 

'  And  at  these  times  the  fellow  would  lay  his  huge 
hand  softly  on  her  bright  brown  hair,  and  stroke  it  in  his 
clumsy,  tender  way ;  and  Berry  would  go  on  with  her 
talk  and  plans  and  pretty  visions,  wondering  how  long  it 
would  be  before  Miss  Carruthers  could  arrange  all  her 
matters  and  be  ready  to  set  about  her  journey ;  Berry 
not  having  the  slightest  doubt  that  whatever  that  young 
woman  set  herself  to  accomplish,  she  would  bring 
speedily  to  pass,  and  Hardy  partaking  also  of  the  same 
implicit  confidence  in  Miss  Carruthers"  powers. 

So  both  were  content  to  wait ;  yet  the  gate-latch  was 
never  lifted,  there  was  never  a  light  tap  at  the  door,  that 
Berry  Shum way's  heart  did  not  give  a  sudden  jump. 

All  this  was  not  singular  when  one  reflects  on  the 
vital  interest  which  this  plan  of  Miss  Carruthers  had  to 
the  young  workman  and  his  sister, —  what  a  change  in 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  251 

their  whole  lives  it  involved, —  a  change  of  country, 
scenes,  habits,  language  even. 

One  night,  with  her  head  on  her  brother's  knee,  and  a 
little  bustle  of  wind  every  few  moments  in  the  rose-bush 
outside  the  window,  Berry  said  to  him,  "There's  some 
things  I  shall  feel  bad  about  leaving  here  at  Tuxbury, 
and  a  few  folks — just  a  few,  you  know,  Hardy." 

"Who  are  they,  Berry?"  he  said,  and  she  felt  the 
big  fingers  were  awkwardly  trying  to  smooth  her  soft 
hair. 

"Well,  there's  Dr.  Avery,  you  know;  I  shall  re- 
member him  as  long  as  I  live ;  and  sometimes  I  shall 
think  it  would  do  me  good  to  see  his  dear,  pleasant  old 
face ;  he  was  our  friend  once,  you  know,  Hardy,"  her 
voice  dropping  a  little. 

"Yes,  I  know  ;  I  shall  never  forget  either,  though. I 
never  said  half-a-dozen  words  to  him." 

"Then  there's  some  of  the  folks  at  the  Mills;  I 
always  liked  Jane  Coyle,  anyhow.  It  makes  me  feel 
curious,  I  can't  jest  tell  how,  but  solemn-like,  to  think 
Jane  and  I,  pretty  soon,  will  never  eat  our  lunches  any 
more  in  the  factory  window,  nor  peep  out  in  the  big 
maple  there,  for  the  robin's  nest." 

' '  Yes,  it  does  seem  funny,  Berry,  to  think  of  that. 
There  are  some  good  fellows  among  the  hands,  that  I 
shall  feel  bad  when  it  comes  to  saying  good-by  for  the  last 
time." 

"Oh,"  said  Berry;  "I  forgot  to  tell  you,  thinking 
of  other  things,  that  Jane  Coyle  told  me  to-day  about  old 
Blatchley.  Have  you  heard  it,  Hardy?  " 


252  THE   MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY. 

She  felt  him  start  and  quiver  all  over.  "  No  ;  what 
was  it?" 

''He's  dead  !  drowned  at  sea.  That  ship  went  down 
and  all  on  board  !  " 

Hardy  sprang  to  his  feet  as  though  he  had  been  shot. 
It  seemed  to  Berry  that  he  staggered  and  steadied  him- 
self before  he  spoke ;  then  he  gasped  out  in  a  hoarse, 
thick,  rapid  voice,  "Who  told  Jane  Coyle  ?  How  did 
she  know  ?  Maybe  it  aint  true." 

"  But  I  tell  you  it  is  true,  Hardy,  every  word,"  an- 
swered Berry,  stoutly,  getting  upon  her  feet  too,  a  good 
deal  startled  by  Hardy's  manner.  "Jane  Coyle  lent  me 
the  paper,  and  I  read  it  myself.  There  was  an  awful 
storm,  somewhere  off  the  South  American  coast,  and  the 
vessel  went  to  pieces,  and  every  soul  on  board  but  two 
perished.  You  know  Blatchley  put  up  with  Jane's 
uncle,  and  he  had  the  paper,  and  that's  the  way  she 
came  by  it." 

Hardy  stood  still  as  a  block,  taking  in  every  word, 
prompt  and  rapid  along  the  clear,  young  voice,  his  eyes, 
with  a  fierce  fire  in  them,  seeming  to  devour  the  whole 


Then  he  tossed  his  head  back  suddenly,  and  a  laugh 
—  such  a  laugh  as  Berry  had  never  heard  from  human 
lips  before,  and  that  made  her  heart  stand  still  —  burst 
out,  loud  and  triumphant  and  awful,  from  Hardy's  lips. 

"  Blatchley 's  drowned  !  old  Blatchley  is  drowned  !  " 
he  cried  or  shouted,  as  a  man  long  hunted  and  harrowed 
by  his  mortal  foe,  might  turn  at  last  and  shout,  seeing 
the  other  lying  dead  before  him. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  253 

"0  Hardy,  don't,  don't  speak  like  that!"  Berry 
cried  out  sharply,  as  one  would  in  deadly  fright. 

Hardy  seized  hold  of  the  girl's  shoulder.  The  man 
seemed  quite  beside  himself.  He  rocked  the  small  figure 
to  and  fro  in  his  heavy  gripe.  His  whole  face  seemed 
fairly  to  gloat  with  a  greedy  triumph  over  the  one  fact 
which  had  taken  possession  of  him  :  "I  tell  you.  Berry, 
he's  lying  away  down  there,  stark  and  cold,  where  he 
can  tell  no  tales.  Old  Blatchley's  drowned  !  "  and  again 
that  laugh,  curdling  Berry's  very  blood. 

She  shut  her  eyes.  "You  frighten  me,  Hardy. 
What  is  the  matter?"  she  cried,  a  good  deal  as  one 
might,  waking  out  of  some  terrible  dream. 

That  voice  seemed  to  recall  the  man  to  himself  a  little. 
He  let  go  his  gripe,  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  in  a  be- 
wildered way  :  "It  took  me  all  of  a  sudden,  Berry.  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  about;  "  and  then  again  she  heard 
him  chuckling  to  himself,  "Old  Blatchley's  dead, — 
he's  dead !  " 

"But  what  makes  you  so  glad,  Hardy?  It  seems 
awful  to  rejoice  like  that  over  any  human  being's  death. 
Did  he  have  you  in  his  power  anyhow,  Hardy?  " 

He  answered  her  with  a  kind  of  wild,  fierce  stare  at 
first.  What  lay  behind  all  this  strange  manner  and 
talk?  Berry  wondered.  "What  have  I  been  sayin', 
Berry?"  he  asked,  in  a  low,  startled  voice,  and  again 
his  hand  went  up  to  his  forehead  in  that  bewildered,  help- 
less way. 

"You  know  what  you've  been  saying,  Hardy  Shum- 
way ;  and  you've  a'most  frightened  the  sense  out  of  me," 


254  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

with  a  touch  of  the  native  tartness  which  underlay  all 
her  warm  heart  and  bright  wits,  and  without  which  I 
doubt  whether  she  could  have  been  the  efficient  little 
soul  and  body  she  was.  "  I  don't  like  such  actions, 
anyhow." 

"  Don't  mind  me,  Berry.  The  news  took  me  by  sur- 
prise, you  know,"  speaking  still  a  good  deal  like  a  man 
half  stunned. 

"I  don't  see,"  continued  Berry,  nervous  and  indig- 
nant with  her  fright,  and  a  good  deal  inclined  to  sob  out- 
right, "  as  that  is  any  reason  why  you  should  laugh  like 
that,  because  a  man's  gone  and  got  drowned.  It's  an 
awful  thing,  Hardy  Shumway.  I  couldn't  have  the 
heart  to  rejoice  over  the  death  of  my  worst  enemy; 
besides,  that  Blatchley  was  a  bad  man." 

"  A  bad  man ;  yes,  he  was  a  bad  man ;  I  know  that," 
repeated  Hardy,  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  shuddered. 
"  But  he's  where  he  can't  do  any  more  harm  now." 

"  But  it  mayn't  be  any  better  for  him,  Hardy.  It's 
a  dreadful  thing  for  a  bad  man  to  die,  and  go  with  all 
his  wicked  life,  right  to  his  God.  It  ought  to  make  us 
feel  worse  than  if  he  was  a  good  man,  and  was  sure  of 
heaven." 

Hardy  stared  at  the  honest  little  pleader  a  moment. 
The  gloating  and  fierceness  had  gone  out  of  his  face,  and 
in  the  dim  candle-light  on  the  table  it  seemed  to  Berry 
to  grow  dreadfully  livid. 

Then  Hardy  turned  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  several  times,  with  his  heavy,  shuffling  tread,  and 
he  did  not  speak  a  word ;  and  Berry  heard  outside  the 


THE     HILLS    OF  TUXBURY.  255 

low  swash  of  the  winds  among  the  rose-vines  by  the 
window. 

At  last  the  young  man  came  over  and  stood  by  her 
side.  u  Berry,"  in  a  wistful  voice,  that  still  did  not 
seem  quite  his  own,  "you  won't  mind  what  I  said  to- 
night. I  didn't  jest  know  how  I  was  goin'  on."- 

"I'm  not  angry  with  you  now,  Hardy,  only  you 
frightened  me  awful,  and  I  don't  know  now  what  to 
make  of  it  all." 

"  All  what?  "  he  asked,  sharply  and  uneasily. 

"Why,  all  your  rejoicin'  over  that  man's  death. 
You  know  I  never  could  bear  him  when  he  was  alive ; 
but  I  couldn't  laugh  over  his  going  down,  down,  away 
off,  under  the  sea." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  Berry  :  I  didn't  know,  I  tell  you, 
jest  what  I  was  about.  But  I  don't  want  Blatchley  to 
have  any  trouble  in  the  other  world;  God  knows  that." 

"It  wouldn't  please  him.  though,  to  have  you  laugh 
in  that  way  over  such  a  thing;  I  know  it  wouldn't," 
face  and  voice  very  solemn. 

"  Well.  Berry,  I'll  try  not  to  laugh  again,  and  maybe 
he  sees  it  different  from  what  you  do.  At  any  rate,  if 
your  God  will  give  me  a  chance,  I'll  try  to  do  the  best 
I  can,  and  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  My  God  !  "  said  Berry,  very  much  shocked.  "  Isn't 
he  your  God,  too,  Hardy?," 

Hardy  paused  a  moment :  "  I  begin  to  feel  a  little  as 
though  he  might  be,"  speaking  more  to  himself  than  his 
sister,  —  "as  though,  after  all,  he'd  give  me  another 
chance." 


256  THE   MILLS    OF  TUX  BURY. 

"Another  chance!  What  are  you  talkin'  about. 
Hardy?  Are  you  really  goin'  crazy?"  coming  close 
to  him,  and  looking  up  anxiously  in  his  face. 

"No,  child,  no.  Don't  be  worried;  I  say  a  good 
many  things  at  random.  It  al'ays  was  my 'way,  you 
know." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  a  very  good  one,  anyhow,  to  scare 
folks  with  such  talk  and  actions,"  with  considerable  of 
asperity. 

' '  I  won't  go  on  so  any  more.  Old  Blatchley's  dead  and 
buried  in  the  sea,  and  we'll  never  speak  of  him  again." 
Spite  of  himself  there  was  a  swell  of  exultation  in  Hardy 
Shumway's  tones  which  he  could  not  repress. 

"He's  nothing  to  us,  and  never  was,"  said  Berry, 
with  a  kind  of  vague  feeling  of  uneasiness  which  she  was 
not  really  conscious  of.  and  yet  she  waited  for  Hardy's 
assent  to  her  remark. 

"  No,  that's  true;  he's  nothing  to  us,  nor  to  anybody 
else  now,  for  that  matter." 

Berry  drew  a  long  sigh,  rose  up  and  shook  herself, 
with  a  kind  of  feeling  that  some  nightmare  had  been  cling- 
ing to  her.  She  went  over  to  the  table  and  snuffed  the 
solitary  candle,  and  the  room  was  filled  with  fresh  light. 
Then  she  came  back  and  put  her  head  out  of  the  windoAv. 
There  was  a  faint,  sweet  breath  of  flowers  in  the  night 
air,  and  overhead  the  stars,  bright  and  calm  in  the  au- 
tumn sky,  and  a  young  moon  like  a  thick  cluster  of  silver 
blossoms  dropping  slowly  behind  the  mountains. 

All  these  things  steadied  Berry's  heart  and    nerves. 


THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURY.  257 

Then  she  heard  the  clock  striking,  and  it  was  far  beyond 
their  usual  bedtime. 

She  drew  her  head  in  at  the  window,  and  went  to  her 
brother,  who  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  again, 
as  though  some  inward  excitement  kept  him  from  sitting 
still. 

"  I  won't  mind  it,  Hardy,"  she  said.  "  We  won't  talk 
about  it  any  more  ;  ' '  and  she  pulled  the  broad  face  down 
to  hers,  and  kissed  it  good-night,  as  she  had,  ever  since 
her  mother  died,  and  she  left  him  there  walking  back  and 
forth  until  long  after  midnight. 

All  the  while  Berry  had  a  feeling  that  some  dreadful 
weight  had  been  suddenly  lifted  off  her  brother's  soul, 
and  that  Blatchley's  death  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

She  fell  several  times  to  pondering  how  this  could  be, 
before  she  dropped  asleep,  and  then  thoughts  of  Miss  Car- 
ruthers,  and  of  the  home  to  be,  crowded  out  everything 
else.  If  it  had  not  been  for  this  absorbing  subject,  Berry 
might  have  pondered  that  matter  of  Blatchley's  until  she 
came  to  fear  lest  the  man  exercised  some  mysterious  pow- 
er over  her  brother's  happiness. 

Once  possessed  of  such  an  idea,  the  girl's  native  energy 
would  not  have  permitted  her  to  pause  without  an  effort 
to  probe  the  thing  to  the  bottom. 

It  is  hardly  possible,  however,  with  all  her  shrewdness, 
that  she  would  have  got  at  the  truth,  whatever  that  might 
be,  and  Miss  Carruthers,  and  the  long  journey,  and  the 
home  at  the  end  of  it,  shut  out  effectually  anything  more 
than  a  passing  interest  in  other  matters,  from  the  mind  of 
Berry  Shumway. 


258  THE   MILLS   OP  TUXBUBT. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  days  came  and  went  just  as  they  had  always  done 
over  the  household  at  Tuxbury,  yet  Benjamin  Whitmarsh 
and  Marjorie  Carruthers  could  hardly  realize  that  nothing 
outside  of  themselves  had  undergone  any  change.  Air 
and  sky  and  earth  seemed  filled  to  them  with  some  divine 
joy  and  beauty.  Life,  which  during  the  last  summer 
had  often  seemed  to  this  man  and  woman,  with  all  the 
gifts  and  good  fortune  which  made  them  the  envy  of  their 
kind,  so  empty  and  dreary  as  to  be  an  insufferable  bur- 
den, now  opened  around  them  fair  and  spacious  horizons 
of  years. 

I  am  not  certain  that  to  superficial  observers,  even  to 
the  very  servants  who  saw  them  in  every-day,  household 
intimacy,  there  was  any  marked  change  in  the  man  or 
woman  of  whom  I  am  trying  to  tell  you.  Neither  of 
them  were  of  the  billing-and-cooing  type,  and  they  had 
their  old  discussions  and  disagreements  as  before. 

Yet  not  as  before.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  were 
conscious  enough  of  the  change  in  Marjorie.  All  the 
swift  moods,  the  fiery  unrest,  were  gone  now,  and  a  gen- 
tleness that  was  childlike  and  a  humility  that  was  touch- 
ing had  come  in  their  stead ,  for  Miss  Carruthers  was  too 
proud  not  to  be  royal  in  her  love.  The  great  ache  and 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  259 

hunger  of  her  heart  were  gone  now  in  the  tidal  overflow 
of  its  tenderness. 

Once  in  a  while  she  would  come  to  Eleanor,  and,  throw- 
ing herself  down  on  the  ottoman  at  her  cousin's  feet,  ask, 
half  shyly,  half  doubtfully,  "Am  I  the  woman  I  was, 
Eleanor,  a  few  days  ago?  " 

"I  think  not,  Marjorie."  smiling  and  drawing  the 
beautiful  head  into  her  lap. 

"Because  everything  seems  utterly  changed.  0 
Eleanor,  those  were  dreadful  days  when  I  thought  I  must 
go  and  leave  you  all ;  and  a  little  smoothed,  raised  line, 
by  the  side  of  uncle's  grave,  seemed  the  only  thing  left 
me  to  desire." 

And  she  shuddered,  and  the  slow  tears  came  into  her 
eyes,  but  the  light  dazzled  through  them  as  she  said  :  — 

"  It  is  good  to  have  something  to  live  for  but  one's 
self." 

"  Yes,  Marjorie,  dear ;  oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I've 
waited  and  trembled  and  prayed  for  this  time.  It  seemed 
hopeless  though,  and  my  heart  utterly  failed  me.  I  knew 
you  and  Ben  were,  of  all  the  world,  just  suited  to  each 
other,  and  I  loved  you  better  than  anything  but  baby 
and  his  pa.  Oh,  dear  !  how  near  you  both  came  to 
losing  each  other  !  " 

"  Yes ;  "  and  Marjorie  slipped  her  hand  into  her  cous- 
in's. "  There  was  only  one  moment  between  us.  It  was 
all  my  fault,  — it  was  my  wicked  pride,  Eleanor." 

How  humble  and  how  penitent  she  looked  saying  those 
words  !  Eleanor,  gazing  at  her,  wondering  if  they  were  all 
gone  forever,  —  the  heats  and  the  tempers  and  the  swift 


2GO  rnr  MILLS  OF  TUXBCRY. 

bridling  head.  Then  surely  love  had  wrought  its  own 
miracle  with  the  soul  of  Marjorie  Carruthers. 

Then,  with  its  native  genius  for  such  things,  Mrs.  "Whit- 
marsh's  imagination  loved  to  go  flowering  and  trailing 
around  Marjorie's  future.  Such  a  home  as  the  young 
matron  delighted  to  paint  for  her  cousin,  while  the  latter 
would  listen,  smiling  and  blushing,  and  always  replying 
half  dreamily,  "I  can't  tell  whether  that  will  ever  be, 
Eleanor  ;  it  seems  a  great  way  off,  but  I  am  content  in 
the  present." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  that  is  all  right  now ;  but  the  rest  will 
come  naturally  enough,  Marjorie  dear.  John  and  I  will 
see  to  all  that.  There  must  be  humdrum  people  like  us 
in  the  world,  to  do  the  practical  side  of  life,  or  what 
would  become  of  all  the  fine  sentiment  and  poetry  such  as 
you  and  Ben  are  made  of? 

"  I've  the  whole  thing  nicely  l^d  down  in  the  chart  of 
my  fancy.  There  is  to  be  the  most  charming  little  villa 
not  far  from  ours,  for,  of  course,  now  it  is  quite  settled 
that  Ben  will  go  into  business  with  John.  Indeed,  I 
heard  them  talking  it  over  last  night,  and  Ben  said  the 
last  drop  of  roving  blood  seemed  somehow  to  have  oozed 
out  of  him,  and  he  supposed  that  he  was  anchored  in  this 
cove  for  his  life  —  " 

"Did  he  say  that,  Eleanor?"  interrupted  Marjorie, 
with  a  great  deal  of  grave  interest. 

"  Precisely.  I  think  he  is  bent  on  putting  his  whole 
energies  into  business,  and  John  is  as  happy  over  it  as 
possible.  It  hurt  him  cruelly  a  little  while  ago  to  feel 
that  he  had  lost  his  brother." 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  261 

"  I  know  it  did.  0  Eleanor,  how  much  trouble  I  have 
caused  you  !  " 

"Don't  talk  about  that,  dear;  we  are  all  so  happy 
now  !  " 

So  the  talk  went  between  the  maiden  and  the  matron 
in  those  still,  radiant  autumn  days  which  had  come  to 
round  out  the  life  of  Marjorie  Carruthers  with  peace  and 
completeness ;  and  sometimes  the  dog  would  come  and 
thrust  his  cold  nose  into  the  soft  palm,  or  the  baby  would 
thrust  up  his  mesh  of  shining  hair  into  her  face. 

Other  talks  Ben  Whitmarsh  and  Marjorie  Carruthers 
had.  walking  out  together  in  the  wide,  green  silences  of 
wood  and  hill-side,  or  sitting  in  soft  starlight  by  the  open 
window,  or  pacing  up  and  down  that  very  veranda  where 
one  of  them  one  night  had  paced  alone ;  remembering 
that  sometimes,  too. 

One  evening,  sitting  by  the  window  and  watching  the 
faint,  gray  wreaths  of  fog  rising  from  the  distant  river, 
a  sudden  silence  crept  between  the  two,  and  grew,  and 
they  did  not  break  it,  at  least,  not  for  a  long  time.  The 
man  and  woman,  out  of  their  fine  sympathy,  apprehended 
each  other's  moods. 

At  last,  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  leaned  forward  and 
looked  into  the  sweet,  grave  face  opposite  him. 

It  answered  him  with  a  smile,  clear  and  content,  and 
yet  touched  with  a  little  sadness. 

"  Marjorie,  do  you  know  what  John  and  Eleanor  are 
busy  planning  for  us,  night  and  day  ?  I  doubt  not  they 
are  absorbed  over  it  this  very  moment." 


262  THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

"  Yes,  Benjamin.  I  know,"  the  calm,  clear  sweet  voice 
along  the  syllables. 

"  I  leave  it  with  them,  Marjorie,  because  when  I  am 
with  you  I  remember  only  that,  and  it  suffices ;  but 
when  we  are  apart,  then  my  heart  and  thoughts  go  out  to 
the  future,  to  home, —  warmth,  and  love,  and  peace;  and 
you  know  who  is  the  central  figure  there,  and  how  impa- 
tient I  must  be  for  that  time,  when  I  have  added  to  all 
the  other  dear  names  the  sacred,  crowning  one." 

She  stirred  a  little,  and  then  she  said  softly,  "  Ben- 
jamin !  " 

"Well,  Marjorie  !  " 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  —  something  which 
vitally  concerns  both  of  us,  and  fear  lest  I  shall  not  say 
it  wisely." 

"  The  time  has  gone  by  for  such  fears  between  you  and 
me,  Marjorie." 

"If  I  was  less  your  friend;  if  I  loved  you  less  ten- 
derly,"—  too  proud  and  honest  for  any  concealment  or 
affectations  then,  —  "I  might  not  feel  it  so  certainly  my 
duty  to  warn  you." 

"  To  warn  me.  — from  what,  Marjorie  ?  " 
"  From  myself.  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  !  Are  you  not 
afraid  to  take  me  for  your  wife ;  ought  I  not  at  least  to 
be  afraid  for  you  ?  There  are  the  perpetual  unrest  and 
chafing  of  my  moods.  —  the  tumult,  the  reaction,  the  weak- 
ness of  my  inharmonious  temperament.  I  should  scorn 
to  marry  a  man,  not  showing  him  the  worst  that  is  in  me ; 
and  sometimes  I  doubt  whether  my  love  would  be  bless- 
ing or  curse  to  one  !  " 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBDRT.  263 

"  Marjorie  Carruthers,  do  you  wrong  yourself  and  me 
like  that?" 

"  Yet  hear  me  again :  You  know  what  marriage  is  to 
most  men  and  women  in  the  world.  If  it  were  no  more 
to  me  —  to  you  in  the  end  —  the  disappointment  and  the 
bitterness  would  be  keener  than  death  to  me." 

She  paused  a  moment,  letting  her  gaze  go  far  out  to 
the  gray  drifting  of  the  fogs  over  the  river ;  but  he  s;iw 
that  she  had  not  done  speaking,  and  her  eyes  came  back 
to  him  with  an  ineffable  mournfulness  and  tenderness,  and 
unconsciously  to  herself  the  thought  at  her  heart  dropped 
into  rhythm  on  her  lips  :  — 

"  'By  the  gladness  of  the  girlhood 

That  has  gone  from  me, 
By  this  saddened  womanhood 
I  must  bring  to  thee,' 

my  soul  must  this  hour  deal  fairly  with  yours,  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh. 

"  If  you  still,  after  what  I  have  shown  you,  persist  in 
all  you  have  said  to-night  — ' '  Her  voice  shook  here  and 
failed  her:  she  put  her  face  down  suddenly  into  her 
hands. 

He  drew  them  away  :  — 

"  Go  on,  Marjorie;  it  is  your  time  now  to  speak  and 
mine  to  listen." 

The  glory  of  her  smile  came  out  on  her  lips  and 
seemed  to  steady  their  trembling,  and  Benjamin  thought 
again,  what  the  old  woman  had  once  said  of  Marjorie 
Carruthers'  smile  :  "  It  seemed  like  an  angel's." 

"Where  shall  I  find  strength  and  steadiness  to  deny 


264  .  THE   MILLS    OF   TVXttURY. 

you?  You  took  both  from  me  in  the  unutterable  joy  of 
that  moment  when  I  found  you  loved  me,  —  for  no  grati- 
tude, but  for  myself,  —  for  what  I  could  be  to  you.  If 
I  was  sure  that  I  could  be  this  always ;  that  the  new 
love  had  so  strengthened  and  steadied  me  that  it  could 
bear  the  strain  of  all  the  future ;  the  strain  that  warps 
and  wears  most  loves  of  men  and  women,  —  then  — 
and  again  she  paused,  and  the  wind  which  that  very 
/light  was  hustling  among  the  rose-leaves  under  Hardy 
Shumway's  cottage  window  rioted  among  the  beautiful 
shrubberies  outside. 

"Then?"  repeated  Benjamin  Whitmarsh. 

Marjorie  leaned  forward,  and  laid  her  hands  in  the 
young  man's,  and  her  voice  held  itself  steadily  through 
words  hardly  breathed  above  a  whisper :  "  Then  for  life 
or  for  death,  as  I  told  you  that  night.  Do  with  the  rest 
as  you  will." 

It  had  come  his  turn  to  speak  now.  He  lifted  her  up 
and  led  her  outside  on  the  veranda,  under  the  soft  shin- 
ing of  the  stars. 

"  I  should  like  God  to  hear  what  I  say  now,  as  well 
as  you,  Marjorie ;  and  it  seems  as  though  we  were  a  lit- 
tle closer  to  him  out  here  than  in  the  house  yonder." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  drew  his  arm  around  her. 

"Marjorie,"  he  said,  "my  life  is  henceforth  in  your 
life.  Out  of  that  the  world  has  no  happiness  to  offer  Ine. 
To. live  with  you,  to  love  you  and  cherish  you,  — to 
have  us  both  grow  better  and  nobler  in  this  mutual  love 
and  care,  — is  the  one  hope  and  purpose  of  my  life.  As 
for  your  faults,  your  moods,  your  tempers,  your  exac- 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXDURY.  265 

tions,  you   have    them ;  so  have  I  mine,  in  a  different 
way.     Do  you  love  me  the  less  ?  " 

An  arch  smile  glanced  across  and  unsettled  the  gravity 
of  her  lips. 

"  No,  you  dear  fellow,  I  really  believe  I  do  not.  Per- 
haps, on  the  whole,  I  like  you  a  little  better  for  them." 

"Well,  then,  you  have  answered  me.  I  only  know 
that  my  love  answers  all  your  doubts  and  fears  absolutely 
and  triumphantly.  Will  you  come  to  me?  " 

What  her  answer  was  you  and  I  have  no  right  to  know. 
We  have  stood  long  enough  on  their  love's  holy  ground. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  went  to  walk  together  through 
the  grounds,  he  bringing  out  a  shawl  and  wrapping  it 
around  her.  telling  her  that,  reckless  as  she  had  hitherto 
been  of  winds  and  of  night  dews,  she  must  remember  now 
that  her  health  was  of  more  consequence  to  him  than 
anything  in  the  world  besides.  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  smiling  eyes  at  that,  and  then  they  darkened  and 
faltered  with  some  memory. 

"  Uncle  Hal  used  to  say  that  to  me  sometimes,"  she 
replied ;  ' '  but  after  he  left  me  my  health  seemed  of  no 
consequence  to  anybody,  — to  myself  even." 

The  whirling  of  winds  among  the  leaves,  the  night  air 
half  choked  with  damp,  sweet  fragrance  of  blossoms,  the 
fogs  thickening  and  drifting  to  and  fro  on  the  distant 
river  like  restless  spirits,  made  them  silent  a  while ;  or 
perhaps  it  was  their  own  happiness,  the  consciousness  of 
what  this  mystery  of  love  meant  which  had  come  to  them 
both,  filling  with  light  and  warmth  the  long  loneliness 
of  their  souls :  the  thought  of  how  singularly  they 


266  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

were  suited  to,  —  of  all  they  might  be  in  the  years  to 
come  to  each  other. 

At  last  Marjorie  said  :  "  Benjamin,  you  spoke  of  God 
to-night." 

"Yes;  I  have  been  thinking  of  him  of  late,  of  his 
character,  and  what  he  is  to  us,  —  Creator  to  created, 
Father  to  children,  — as  I  never  did  before." 

"  So  I  have  been  thinking.  It  seems  to  me  that  any 
real  love  must  draw  us  nearer  to  the  great  central  Love  ' ' 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  too,  what  his  love  meant," 
continued  Benjamin  Whitmarsh.  "It  never  struck  me 
before ;  indeed  I  had  dipped  a  good  deal  farther  into 
Oompte  and  Spinosa  than  I  had  into  the  Bible. 

"  But  the  other  day  there  came  suddenly  across  me 
some  words  out  of  that  old  Book  which  my  mother  used 
to  read  in  my  childhood,  or,  it  may  be,  I  have  heard 
them  in  some  sermon.  I  cannot  tell  where  ;  but  it  seems 
they  have  lain  long  locked  up  in  my  memory,  and  these 
were  the  words  :  '  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave 
his  only-begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  believeth  in  him 
should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life.'  The  words 
were  like  a  new  revelation  to  me,  —  this  love  of  God 
freshly  interpreted  to  my  soul  out  of  its  love  for  you, 
Marjorie." 

"  Yes,  I  see  that,"  she  answered,  softly. 

"  When  one  thinks,  too,  what  sort  of  a  world  it  was 
to  which  he  came,  Marjorie  !  You  and  I  know  some- 
thing of  that ;  how  those  old  thousands  of  years  are 
filled  only  with  the  tramping  to  and  fro  of  evil.  There 
were  the  wrecks  of  the  old  civilizations  which  had  their 


1'llK    MILLS    OF    TUXliVRY.  267 

day  of  power  and  splendor,  and  perished.  The  best 
religion,  perhaps,  which  the  world  had  ever  attained,  was 
the  worship  of  the  Beautiful,  and  we  know  what  became 
of  that  a  century  and  a  half  before  he.  the  Son  of  man, 
God's  unspeakable  Gift,  came  to  the  world  —  a  world 
full  of  hurtling  evil,  of  all  the  strong  energies  of  malice, 
of  confusions  and  distractions  and  hatreds. 

"  Wherever  men  made  them  a  home,  there  the  green 
earth  was  sure  to  be  harrowed  by  the  red  ploughshare  of 
war ;  the  brightest  moral  Ideal  to  which  mankind  had 
attained  was  that  of  Grecian  aesthetics  or  Roman  law. 
Charity,  pity,  forgiveness  for  wrong,  had  hardly  so  much 
as  entered  into  the  hearts  of  men  ;  and  yet.  for  all  that, 
God  so  loved  this  dark,  miserable,  staggering,  malice- 
drunken  old  world  that  he  gave  his  Son  to  it,  to  live  and 
to  die  for  it." 

For  a  long  time  she  did  not  answer  him.  The  winds 
whizzed  softly  among  the  leaves,  and  the  solemn  stars 
shone  overhead.  Her  thoughts  were  busy  within  her. 
The  Ideal  after  which  this  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  been 
educated  was  not  the  Christ-Ideal.  It  was  one  of  grace, 
refinement,  culture ;  but  really,  she  began  to  sec  it  now, 
ending  in  nothing  better  than  the  old  Greek  self-develop- 
ment, —  seeking  the  divine  in  art  and  beauty  and  human- 
ity. This  help  for  the  sinning,  this  lifting  the  lonely, 
this  work  for  mankind,  was  something  new  to  her.  Life 
took  on  new  meanings  to  her.  How  much  of  her  own 
had  been  a  mistake,  after  all ! 

At  last  she  spoke  :  "  That  Ideal  makes  one's  living  a 
terribly  earnest  thing.  How  beside  it  a  life  of  mere 


268  THK  JUILJ.S  OF 

personal  development,  cultivation,  refined  enjoyment, 
shrinks  into  one  of  essential  selfishness  !  It  gives  you 
and  me  some  work  to  do  for  humanity,  Benjamin." 

"Yes;  some  work  wherever  we  may  be,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  smile  :  "  There  is  no 
lack  of  a  field  here  in  Tuxbury,  among  all  these  poor, 
ignorant,  degraded  workmen." 

"Yes;  I  almost  feel  at  this  moment,  Marjorie,  as 
though  God  had  set  you  and  me  here,  saying,  'This  is 
your  vineyard ;  work  in  it ;  '  but  I  cannot  tell  how  long  I 
shall  hear  the  call,  if  it  be  of  God.  The  voices  of  the 
world  will  rise  up  and  drown  it,  or  I  shall  forget  it  in 
my  own  indolence,  selfishness,  love  of  pleasure  of  one 
sort  and  another.  0  Marjorie,  you  must  help  me." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  was  going  to  say  to  you." 

"Well  then,  we  will  help  each  other,"  closing  his 
hand  over  the  soft,  white  one  which  lay  on  his  arm. 

A  little  later  they  went  into  the  house,  and  found  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  in  the  library. 

"  I  concluded  you'd  made  up  your  minds  to  walk  until 
dawn,"  said  the  lady,  glancing  at  the  clock,  which 
already  had  crossed  the  meridian  of  night.  "When 
John  and  I  were  in  your  condition,  we  were  very  obliv- 
ious of  time,  I  remember,  and  we  were  not  romantic  peo- 
ple, like  you,  Ben  and  Marjorie." 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  did  not  often  venture  on  jests  with 
the  lovers,  having  a  feeling  that  her  cousin  might  not 
just  relish  the  stale  commonplaces  of  the  occasion  ;  but 
the  present  afforded  too  good  an  opportunity  to  be  lost. 

"John  and  you,  Eleanor,  are  the  good  spirits  which 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  269 

take  from  us  all  care  of  practical  things,  and  leave  to 
Marjorie  and  me  the  poetical,  enchanted  side  of  life," 
answered  young  Whitmarsh. 

"You  may  well  say  that,  Ben,"  -with  that  bright  tart- 
ness in  her  tones  which  gave  such  a  pretty  animation  to 
the  talk  of  Eleanor  Whitmarsh.  "I  can't  possibly 
beguile  Marjorie  into  talking  about  her  future  home,  or 
impress  upon  her  any  more  sense  of  the  duties  and 
responsibilities  of  house-keeping  than  I  could  upon 
baby.  She  fancies  all  those  things  follow  general  rules, 
and  that  coffee  and  muffins  are  as  certainly  to  be  depended 
on  at  breakfast-time  as  is  the  law  of  gravitation." 

Everybody  laughed.  Marjorie  thought  of  her  late 
project  of  a  home  in  Switzerland,  and  fancied  that  if  Elea- 
nor knew  precisely  how  she  had  planned  and  arranged  all 
the  details,  and  intended  to  consummate  them  too,  with- 
out any  further  assistance  than  a  maid  and  man  from  the 
Mills,  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  would  not  be  so  confident  about 
her  cousin's  fatal  lack  of  practicality. 

She  answered  the  rallying  tone  with  a  laugh  :  "  Well, 
Eleanor,  I  intend  to  place  myself  under  your  instructions 
from  this  hour.  You  shall  find,  though  I  have  sat  so 
long  at  my  feast  among  the  dews  and  the  daisies,  I  am  not 
spoiled  for  the  practical  side  of  life.  Indeed.  I  begin  to 
see  that  is,  in  a  wide  sense,  the  noblest  of  all.  I  shall 
prove  to  you  there  are  some  latent  forces  in  me  which 
you  little  suspect." 

"I  don't  doubt  that.  You  have  proved  that  once, 
Marjorie." 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  spoke  before  she  was  aware,  and  to 


270  THE    MILLS    GF    TCXHURY. 

herself  more  than  to  her  cousin,  as  that  night  flashed 
across  the  lady's  memory  which  had  proved  the  strength 
of  Marjorie  Carruthers  in  the  face  of  the  weakness  of  all 
the  others. 

"  How  could  I  be  so  stupid  !  "  thought  the  lady,  look- 
ing blank  enough  for  one  moment. 

But  Ben  and  Marjorie  only  glanced  at  each  other. 

"Oh,  there  you  are!"  shouted  the  bluff,  pleasant 
voice  of  the  doctor  next  morning.  "  I'm  after  you,  Mar- 
jorie/'' 

She  sprang  up  in  a  hurry,  scattering  the  dews  from  a 
cluster  of  dahlias  and  chrysanthemums  which  she  held  in 
her  hand,  her  whole  face  sparkling  with  brightness,  the 
pruning-shears  dropping  to  the  ground. 

"0  Dr.  Avery,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  !  "  she  said. 

No  need  to  tell  him  that  twice  with  those  eyes. 

"I've  been  after  you  for  the  last  three  or  four  days," 
he  said  ;  "but  it  was  no  use.  They've  had  a  tug  with 
typhus  and  typhoid  down  among  the  factory-people,  and 
I  had  to  be  on  hand  to  see  that  it  didn't  get  the  mastery. 
We've  conquered  the  giant  in  the  hardest  cases,  and 
so  this  morning  brought  me  leave  of  absence,  and  I  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  started  off  for  you." 

"Ah,  doctor,  you  are  really  living  for  some  purpose 
in  the  world,"  looking  at  the  keen,  hearty  face,  and 
thinking  of  some  talk  last  night  among  the  shrubberies, 
talk  which  had  wonderfully  shaken  all  her  previous  con- 
ceptions of  any  true  living. 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  in  turn  with  his  shrewd, 
penetrating  eyes :  — 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  271 

"  I  came  over  here  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  where  we 
left  off  the  other  day." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  seems  so  long  ago,"  answered  Marjorie, 
remembering  all  that  had  come  between.  "We  will  go 
up  into  the  arbor." 

They  went  up  the  terrace-steps  together.  It  was  a 
warm,  hushed  autumn  morning,  beautiful  in  its  kind,  — 
one  wide  cloud,  like  a  soft,  light-gray  plush,  covering  the 
whole  sky,  a  lazy  quiver  of  winds  among  the  leaves. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is  to-day  !  "  said  Marjorie,  looking 
around,  her  wide,  brown  eyes  radiant  with  enjoyment. 

"  Yes ;  this  kind  of  morning  was  one  of  my  favorites, 
even  in  my  youth,  and  I  have  learned  to  enter  deeper 
into  its  spirit  of  brooding  hush  and  peace  as  I  grow  older. 
I  always  seem  to  hear  singing  softly  through  such  mo- 
ments a  psalm  of  peace  and  content,  with  which  one, 
after  a  well-spent  life,  might  draw  closer  to  the  grave." 

"  A  well-spent  life  !  "  repeated  Marjorie,  and  it  drifted 
across  her  how  her  Uncle  Hal  would  never  have  used 
those  words.  He  talked  often  of  a  life  of  fine  culture, 
of  a  grand,  heroic  career ;  and  thinking  these  thoughts 
as  she  walked  along  by  the  doctor's  side,  she  uncon- 
sciously arranged  the  flowers  in  her  hands,  the  white 
chrysanthemums  among  the  burning  dahlias  like  snow- 
flakes  scattered  among  fire. 

They  reached  the  wide,  roofless  arbor.  The  doctor  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  iron  benches,  and  Marjorie  brought  a 
stool  to  his  feet  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  much  like  a 
child  into  a  tender  father's. 


272  THE  MILLS   OP  TUXBURT. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you,  my  dear?  "  he  asked. 

"  Something  good,  doctor,  —  good  beyond  all  my  hopes 
or  dreams,"  she  said,  softly,  and  then  a  flush  entered 
suddenly  into  her  whole  face. 

' :  I  saw  that  with  my  first  glance  into  your  eyes,  Mar- 
jorie." 

"  Doctor,"  her  words  still  hovering  around  the  truth, 
"  I  am  not  going  abroad." 

"  I  fancied  not ;  "  and  a  shrewd  twinkle  came  into  the 
old  man's  eyes.  Marjorie  started,  and  her  cheeks  burned 
deeper  than  before.  Of  a  sudden  she  asked  :  — 

"  Has  anybody  been  telling  you  ?  " 

"Not  a  soul." 

"  But  you  know  something.     I  see  that  in  your  eyes." 

"I  know  nothing,  Marjorie;  but  I  have  a  suspicion 
that  there  is  a  man  at  this  sudden  change  in  that  project 
of  yours,  about  settling  down  under  the  Alps.  I've  been 
turning  it  over  in  my  mind  day  and  night,  and  I've  come 
primed  to  talk  it  on  all  sides  this  morning." 

"You  are  very  good,  doctor,  and  you  are  right," 
answered  the  girl,  and  her  cheeks  rivalled  at  that  moment 
the  crimson  at  the  heart  of  the  dahlias  in  her  lap. 

"  And  the  name  of  this  man  is —  Have  I  your  leave 
to  say  it  first,  Marjorie  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Benjamin  Whitmarsh." 

She  put  her  hand  in  the  old  doctor's  for  answer. 

Afterward  they  talked  freely  enough  together. 

"  But  how  did  you  know,  — how  did  you  come  to  sus- 
pect? "  Marjorie  persisted  in  questioning. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY.  ,         273 

"  Ah,  Marjorie,  you  guarded  jour  secret  like  a  proud 
woman  ;  but  that  day  we  rode  together  I  looked  into  your 
face,  and  something  of  the  pain  and  weariness  there,  set 
me  to  thinking.  I  was  not  certain,  of  course  ;  but  after- 
ward, when  you  sprang  and  winced  so  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  gratitude,  my  suspicions  settled  down  into  stub- 
born convictions. ;' 

The  tears  came  into  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  0  doctor,"  she  said,  "  I  see  now  what  a  blind,  weak, 
proud,  passionate  fool  I  have  been!  " 

The  doctor  took  her  hands  in  his. 

"  J  should  not  let  anybody  else  slander  you  like  that, 
my  child/'  he  said. 

After  the  ice  was  once  broken,  they  sat  there  together 
and  talked  for  an  hour  at  least,  in  the  wide,  roofless  walk, 
and  the  plush  of  gray  clouds  above  them. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  Ben  Whitmarsh  broke  in 
suddenly  upon  them  :  — 

"  Ah,  Marjorie  !  "  and  then  catching  sight  of  the 
doctor:  "My  dear  sir,  I'm  heartily  glad  to  see  you;  " 
and  the  old  man  and  the  young  one  grasped  hands. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  glad  to  congratulate  you  from 
my  heart." 

"  Then  I  see  you  know  all,"  bowing  and  smiling 
toward  Marjorie. 

"He  knew  it  all  before  I  told  him,"  laughing  and 
crimsoning  again. 

"  I  never  should,  though,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that 
Interlachen  project,"  answered  the  doctor,  who  was  never 
eager  for  compliments  to  his  penetration. 


274  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY. 

"  Interlachen  project!"  repeated  Ben  Whitmarsh. 
"  What  does  he  mean,  Marjorie?  " 

She  laughed  that  laugh  sweeter  than  the  tickling  of 
winds  among  flowers.  "  You've  let  the  bird  out  of  the 
cage  now,  doctor  !  " 

"  What!  didn't  he  know  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Avery. 

"Not  a  word." 

"  But  he  means  to,  now,"  added  Ben  Whitmarsh,  very 
decidedly,  taking  a  seat. 

"  I  had  rather  you  should  tell  him,  doctor,"  said  Mar- 
jorie, at  last. 

So  the  doctor  told  the  story  of  Marjorie's  pretty 
project  of  the  home  across  the  sea. 

He  commenced  sportively  enough ;  but  somehow  the 
whole  three  grew  grave  before  he  got  through. 

Marjorie,  too,  related  her  visit  to  Berry  Shumway, 
and  how  she  had  quite  turned  the  child's  head  with  all 
the  new  plans. 

"  I  haven't  thought  of  her  of  late,"  she  said;  "but 
I've  no  doubt  all  those  pretty  visions  have  been  shining 
and  buzzing  in  her  brain  ever  since.  It  will  be  a  severe 
disappointment  to  her  when  they  all  come  to  be  scattered, 
as  well  as  to  that  big  brother,  no  doubt.  I  must  find 
some  way  of  making  this  up  t,o  them." 

"  I'll  try  and  help  you,  Marjorie,"  answered  Ben 
Whitmarsh,  "for  the  sake  of  my  little  friend.  I've 
always  intended  to  see  her  again,  but  have  never  come 
across  her  since  our  first  meeting  on  the  roadside." 

More  of  this  talk  followed ;  half  grave,  half  gay :  and 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  275 

at  last  the  doctor  looked  at  his  watch,  and  reluctantly 
rose  up,  saying  it  was  long  past  time  for  him  to  leave. 

He  took  both  their  hands  in  his :  — 

"  My  heart  is  with  you  in  your  great  joy.  The  Lord 
bless  you,  my  children  !  " 

They  followed  him  to  the  gate,  and  stood  watching  the 
old  chaise  as  it  swept  up  the  road. 

"  A  good  man  is  inside  there,  —  a  grand,  noble  man," 
exclaimed  Marjorie,  at  last. 

"  Yes,  and  we  know  after  what  Ideal  he  strives  to 
shape  his  life,"  replied  young  Whitmarsh. 

"Yes,  we* know,"  she  answered,  softly. 

After  a  while  he  turned  and  looked  at  her:  "Ah, 
Marjorie,  with  what  wonderful  sagacity  you  had  laid  out 
all  that  plan  of  yours  !  I'd  like  to  hear  what  Eleanor 
would  have  to  say  to  your  practicality  now.  However, 
all  the  time  I  was  listening,  the  sagacity  did  not  strike 
me  so  much  as  something  else." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  It  was  how  very  near  the  whole  thing  came  to  suc- 
cess. One  moment  only  stood  between  you  and  me, 
Marjorie." 

Her  face  shook  all  over.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"  0  Benjamin,  thank  God  !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  thank  God,  Marjorie !  " 


276  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

"HARDY,"  said  Berry  Shumway,  hurrying  in  from 
the  front  yard  one  morning,  her  hands  filled  with  a  wet, 
dazzling  heap  of  colors,  —  great  crimson  dahlias,  and 
golden  marigolds,  and  flaming  shafts  of  gladiolus,  — 
"  do  you  see?"  holding  up  close  to  his  face  the  dew, 
and  color,  and  perfume. 

"  Yes,  it's  putty,"  placing  the  tin  box  which  contained 
the  dinner  he  was  to  carry  that  day  to  the  Mills  on  the 
mantel,  and  he  surveyed  the  bright,  wet  mass  with  a 
twinkle  of  admiration.  "  You've  made  a  fine  haul  this 
time." 

"Yes;  it's  wonderful  how  these  dahlias  and  gladiolus 
have  come  out  this  last  week.  I  tell  you,  Hardy,  I'll 
show  you  some  flower-pots  when  you  come  home  to-night 
that  will  be  worth  looking  at;  "  and  she  laid  down  her 
bouquet  on  the  table  among  a  green,  feathery  pile  of 
asparagus  heads. 

Then  she  turned  quickly :  "  Did  you  get  the  ginger- 
bread, Hardy  ?  I  put  some  nice  slices  of  corn-beef  between 
the  biscuit.  They  make  such  a  nice  relish,  you  know." 

"  Yes  ;  I've  put  'm  up  all  right ;  "  lighting  his  inevi- 
table pipe,  always  his  last  preparatory  work  before  start- 
ing for  the  Mills. 

"  It's  such  a  nice  morning,"  said  Berry,  with  her  swift, 


THE  MILLS   OF  TVXBURY.  277 

brown  little  fingers  stripping  off  the  wet.  dead  leaves  from 
the  flowers,  "  I  just  feel  as  though  I  must  keep  out  doors, 
like  the  birds  and  squirrels.  I  envy  'em  that  they  don't 
have  anything  to  do  but  have  a  good  time  out  in  the 
woods  such  weather  as  this." 

"  You  may  have  as  good  a  time  as  they,"  said  Hardy, 
after  a  trial  whiff  or  two  at  his  pipe.  "  Why  don't  you 
jest  lock  up  and  go  off  for  the  day,  and  have  a  high  old 
time  in  the  woods  ?  It'll  do  you  good." 

Berry's  eyes  danced  as  she  turned  them  to  her  brother  : 
"  That's  a  bright  idea,  Hardy.  I've  a  real  mind  to  go 
over  to  Cherry  Bend  after  wild  plums.  They  must  be 
ripe  by  this  time,  and  they  make  such  nice  preserves  for 
winter.  Oh,  I  forgot !  "  catching  her  breath  suddenly. 

"  Forgot  what?  "  asked  Hardy. 

11  Why,  that  'taint  likely  you  and  I  will  be  here  next 
winter." 

"No,"  said  Hardy,  with  a  slight  doubt  in  his  tones. 
"You  don't  s'pose  that  Miss  Carruthers  would  change 
her  mind  now,  do  you,  Berry  ?  We've  been  a  good  while 
hearin'  from  her,  you  know." 

"She  aint  the  person  to  change  her  mind  when  once 
she's  made  it  up ;  you  may  depend  on  that,  Hardy  Shum- 
way,"  answered  Berry,  with  so  decided  a  sweep  of  her 
arm  that  she  scattered  a  heap  of  leaves  upon  the  carpet. 
"  Oh,  dear  !  see  there,  Hardy,  what  you've  made  me 
do  !  "  a  good  deal  nettled  with  him  that  he  should  have 
ventured  to  suggest  a  possibility  of  Miss  Carruthers 
changing  her  mind ;  but  she  was  down  on  the  floor  pick- 
ing up  the  debris  in  a  moment.  "  As  though  it  didn't 


278  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

take  a  great  while  to  get  all  things  in  shape  for  such  a 
journey." 

"Yes,  folks  have  to  move  slower  than  they'd  like, 
sometimes,"  replied  Hardy,  trying  to  satisfy  himself  with 
this  general  reflection,  for  the  anticipated  journey  had 
taken  as  strong  possession  of  his  imagination  as  it  had  of 
his  sister's. 

"  I  have  a  feelin',  too,"  said  Berry,  as  she  got  up,  her 
apron  holding  the  leaves,  "that  soinethin's  goin'  to  hap- 
pen pretty  soon.  I  can't  tell  what,  nor  how  I  know, 
only  I  jest  feel  it,  and  I  think  it's  because  Miss  Carru- 
thers  is  coming.  Who  knows  but  what  it  may  be  this 
very  day?  I  won't  go  off  into  the  woods,  Hardy,  come 
to  think,  for  I  may  miss  her.  and  that  would  be  so  dread- 
ful." 

Hardy  had  a  profound  respect  for  the  girl's  prescience. 
How  little  she  guessed  with  what  soft,  strong  fibres  of 
love  she  held  the  soul  of  the  big,  coarse  man  ! 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  leave  the  goin'  with  you,  for 
I  must  be  off;  only,  Berry,"  pausing  at  the  door  with  the 
latch  in  his  hand,  "I've  filled  the  pail  to  the  brim. 
Don't  you  go  to  tryin'  that  well-rope  to-day.  It's  too 
hard  for  little  folks'  arms,  afore  I've  mended  it." 

She  looked  up,  touched  with  this  proof  of  his  care, 
and  with,  perhaps,  a  faint  compunction  that  she  had  not 
been  just  pleasant  to  him  a  moment  before.  She  had 
pretty,  sudden  ways  of  doing  things,  half-girlish,  half- 
womanish,  that  were  a  part  of  herself,  as  much  as  the  soft, 
sweet  perfume  of  the  pansies  lying  there  on  the  table  were 
a  part  of  themselves,  —  bright,  simple  ways  that,  I  think, 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  279 

a  man  loves,  whether  his  nature  be  elevated  and  ideal  or 
coarse  and  uncultured. 

There  was  a  double  yellow  chrysanthemum  lying  on 
the  table,  the  first  on  the  bush  this  season. 

Berry  intended  it  should  be  the  central  star  of  her  bou- 
quet. She  caught  it  up  now,  her  choicest  flower,  and 
ran  to  her  brother  :  "  Stop  one  moment,  Hardy ;  I  want 
to  put  this  in  your  button-hole.  It's  my  first  chrysanthe- 
mum, jest  like  a  great  yellow  rose,  and  you  shall  have 
it." 

It  was  a  picture  that  the  sunshine  had  all  to  itself,  — 
the  big  man  standing  there  in  the  door- way,  with  his  pipe 
held  carefully  behind  him,  so  that  its  fumes  should  not 
sicken  her,  while  the  girl  fastened  the  flower  in  the  but- 
ton-hole of  his  shaggy  blue  coat.  As  he  stood  there  some- 
thing soft  and  tender  came  into  young  Shumway's  broad, 
heavy  face,  —  something  which  belonged  to  the  better 
side  of  the  workman's  nature.  You  felt  that  he  would  look 
at  the  flower  a  good  many  times  during  the  day,  and  that 
it  would  have  some  meaning  for  him. 

The  bright  morning  light  shook  in  the  girl's  brown 
hair  as  she  bent  her  head  to  bite  off  the  ends  of  the  stem, 
and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  a  smile,  saying,  "  There, 
now,  Hardy,  you  great,  big  fellow,  you've  got  my  prettiest 
flower ;  but  I  don't  begrudge  it  to  you." 

"I  know  that,  Berry.  You're  a  good  girl ;  "  a  soft, 
pleased  smile  unlocking  his  jaws,  and  he  bent  down  sud- 
denly and  kissed  her  cheek,  and  went  away ;  and  Berry 
Shumway  stood  in  the  door  and  watched  :hc  large,  famil- 
iar figure  tramping  up  the  road  ;  and  there  was  a  pleasant 


280  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

shining  in  her  eyes  and  about  her  lips  as  she  looked  away 
off  to  the  hills  that  autumn  morning,  with  the  bright 
light  and  the  faint  blue  mists  upon  them.  She  was  very 
happy ;  a  pleasant  day  always  made  her  so,  but  Berry 
Shumway  will  never  forget  —  never  to  the  latest  hour 
of  her  life  —  how  she  stood  in  the  door  that  morning 
and  watched  Hardy  go  up  the  road,  after  he  had  left  her 
with  that  last  smile  upon  his  lips.  She  went  back  to  her 
household  work,  for  this  was  one  of  her  house  days,  and 
a  bustling  activity  came  naturally  enough  to  Berry  Shum- 
way ;  and  she  hummed  bits  of  old  tunes,  and  wondered 
whether  Miss  Carruthers  would  not  let  her  keep  a  canary 
when  they  got  settled  down  in  the  new,  beautiful  home 
so  far  away  ;  and  every  little  while  she  would  pause  and 
listen  for  the  gate-latch,  with  the  feeling  that  something 
was  about  to  happen.  She  never  once  feared  lest  it  should 
not  be  good. 

Something  was  about  to  happen.     Alas  for  thee,  poor 
little  Berry  Shumway ! 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  281 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THAT  very  morning,  less  than  a  couple  of  hours  after 
Berry  Shumway  had  watched  her  brother  disappear  up 
the  factory-road,  John  Whitmarsh  came  back  suddenly 
as  he  was  leaving  the  house,  at  the  conclusion  of  a  long 
business  talk  with  his  brother,  saying,  "There's  a  fresh 
chance  for  promotion,  Ben.  One  of  our  foremen  is  going 
out  West.  Got  any  favorite  of  the  right  sort  among  the 
hands  to  whom  you'd  like  to  do  a  kindness  ?" 

Marjorie  Carruthers  coming  up  the  walk  at  that  mo- 
ment heard  the  question.  Only  the  night  before  she  had 
been  talking  of  the  Shumways  with  Ben  Whitmarsh,  with 
a  sense  that  she  owed  something  to  the  brother  and  sister 
after  all  the  fine  promises  she  had  failed  to  fulfil ;  chid- 
ing herself,  too,  because  the  long  absorbance  in  her  own 
happiness  had  fairly  driven  them  out  of  her  thoughts, 
and  her  silence  would  be  sure  to  look  to  the  workman 
and  his  sister  like  indifference  or  neglect.  So  Benjamin 
Whitmarsh  had  said  to  Marjorie,  "  If  you  could  make 
those  people  useful  in  one  home,  why  can't  you  equally 
so  in  another?  " 

•  The  girl  laughed  :  "  That  is  much  like  a  man's  reason- 
ing when  he  comes  to  talk  of  household  affairs.  As  for 
Berry,  I  can  conceive  her  being  just  as  serviceable  in  one 
place  as  another,  with  all  these  bright,  helpful  ways ;  but 


282  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

when  it  comes  to  her  big  brother,  I  can't  see  what  earthly 
use  I  can  make  of  him." 

"  I  can,  though.  One  of  these  days,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
you  and  I  will  be  domiciled  in  a  home  of  our  own,  in  the 
midst  of  grounds  with  arbors,  and  shrubberies,  and  ave- 
nues, and  what  not,  sufficient  at  least  to  keep  busy  one 
man  of  brawny  muscles  and  shrewd  brain,  steady,  indus- 
trious, and  understanding  his  work.  Now,  if  this  young 
Shumway  is  made  of  this  sort  of  stuff,  we  will  find  a 
permanent  place  for  him,  and  make  it  worth  his  while  to 
accept  it." 

Marjorie  reflected  a  moment:  "  That  strikes  me  as  a 
capital  settlement  of  the  difficulty.  I  never  could  have 
untied  the  knot  without  your  help,  Ben.  You  have 
slipped  those  people  very  smoothly  around  what  I  feared 
must  be  the  sharp  corner  of  their  disappointment. 
Only  —  " 

"Only  what?"  he  asked,  for  Marjorie  had  paused, 
with  a  faint  smile  about  her  lips,  and  a  faint  color  in  her 
cheeks. 

"It  will  come  very  awkwardly  to  me  to  go  over  there 
and  make  all  the  necessary  explanations  to  that  little, 
bright,  eager  face  ;  and  it  would  come  doubly  hard  if  the 
big  brother  should  happen  to  be  at  home.  Yet  I  owe 
them  the  explanation.  I  see  now  I  was  in  too  great  a 
hurry  one  day." 

"And  because  you  have  grace  enough  to  own  that,* 
Marjorie,  I'll  go  over  and  help  you  out  with  the  awkward 
explanations;"  an  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "Be- 
sides that,  I  want  to  see  my  brave  little  friend  again.  I 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  283 

haven't  come  on  her,  you  know,  since  our  first  meeting 
that  day  by  the  roadside." 

So  it  was  settled  that  night,  betwixt  the  two,  that  they 
should  drive  over  to  the  Settlement  within  a  few  days. 
But  the  next  morning,  coming  up  the  walk,  and  hearing 
her  cousin's  question  to  her  brother,  Marjorie  Carruthers 
paused  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch,  and  heard  young 
Whitmarsh  reply,  "  I  can't  think,  John,  of  anybody 
among  the  hands,  at  this  moment,  whom  I  especially 
desire  to  serve." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  fix  it  all,"  lifting  his  hat  to  Mar- 
jorie as  he  was  about  to  start  off. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  the  girl.  "  Stay,  John," 
she  said ;  "I  really  wish  you'd  let  me  make  a  suggestion 
in  this  matter,  as  Ben  has  declined  it." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Marjorie ;  but  what  in  the  world 
do  you  know  about  mill-hands  and  matters  ?  " 

"  Precious  little.  Yet  there  is  one  whom  I  should 
like  to  see  promoted  to  this  vacant  office  of  foreman,  pro- 
vided he  has,  as  you  say,  the  qualifications  for  the 
position." 

"  Who  in  the  world  is  he,  Marjorie?"  inquired  the 
gentleman,  a  good  deal  surprised  and  amused. 

"Hardy  Shumway." 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  of  that  fellow !  "  exclaimed 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  who  had  thus  far  been  listening 
silently  to  the  talk.  "It's  singular  I  never  come  upon 
him  in  any  of  my  tours  through  the  work-rooms." 

"  Well.  Marjorie,  I  will  talk  the  matter  over  with  some 
of  the  officers,  and  let  you  know  this  evening.  The  fel- 


284  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 

low  shall  have  the  place  if  he  is  competent  to  it,  and  I  see 
no  reason  why  he  is  not." 

':  You've  settled  it,  Marjorie,"  said  the  younger  Whit- 
marsh  as  his  brother  went  down  the  walk,  and  afterward 
the  two  arranged  a  drive  over  to  the  Settlement  that  very 
evening  to  communicate  the  good  news  of  Hardy  Shum- 
way's  promotion. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  was  a  venturesome  creature.  The 
day  was  one  in  which  it  was  impossible,  to  use  her  own 
words,  for  people  to  stay  in-doors,  and  in  the  early  after- 
noon she  went  out  by  herself,  Eleanor  being  engaged  in- 
side with  company,  and  the  gentlemen  having  business 
which  took  them  over  to  the  mines  after  dinner.  The 
girl  had  no  especial  object  in  view  when  she  started  from 
the  door,  beyond  enjoying  the  sunshine,  the  earth,  and  the 
delicious  air  of  the  day.  She  went  down  the  road  in  a 
half-dreamy  mood,  and  was  quite  surprised  at  last  at  find- 
ing herself  close  to  the  back  of  the  great  iron  Furnace 
buildings. 

Some  unaccountable  fancy  seized  Miss  Carruthers  to 
enter  inside.  She  had  been  thinking  lately  of  the  men 
and  women  employed  in  these  vast  workshops,  with  some 
new  interest,  —  some  feeling  that  between  her  and  them 
were  tough  bonds  of  humanity  ;  and,  with  all  her  culture 
and  fastidiousness,  she  had  a  new  desire  to  be  brought  in 
contact  with  the  hard,  grimy  workmen,  —  with  the  coarse, 
toiling  women, — to  get  closer  into  their  lives  and  feel- 
ings, and  to  reach  down,  if  it  might  be,  her  white,  un- 
soiled  hands,  and  help  some  of  these  souls  of  men  and 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  285 

women  out  of  the  murk  and  drudgery  where  they  dwelt, 
to  higher  and  fairer  levels. 

So,  all  alone,  Marjorie  Carruthers  entered  the  work- 
shops, and  amid  the  busy,  sweating,  moiling  hive,  amid 
the  dust,  and  grime,  and  din  shone  again  like  an  angel's 
the  fine,  rare,  delicate  beauty  of  her  face. 

She  stopped  often,  watching  the  work  and  speaking  to 
one  and  another  among  the  squads  of  men.  Certainly 
nothing  she  said  that  day  would  be  worth  putting  in  a 
book,  and  yet  there  was  hardly  one  of  the  hands  who  did 
not  go  over  to  his  wife  and  children  that  evening  every 
word  that  the  lady  with  the  beautiful  face  had  said  to  him, 
and  more  than  one  affirmed  the  smile  was  as  bright  in  her 
eyes  as  on  her  lips  while  she  talked.  Marjorie  had  a 
fancy  to  make  the  circuit  of  the  buildings  by  herself  this 
afternoon,  and  she  consequently  kept  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  office,  where  she  would  have  been  certain  of  find- 
ing plenty  of  escorts,  and  the  pleased,  half-awestruck, 
wondering  faces  of  the  workmen  followed  her  wherever 
she  moved  through  the  long,  dark  passages  and  up  the 
stairs  into  the  upper  galleries.  At  last  she  reached  the 
top  of  the  main  tower,  —  a  large,  circular  kind  of  room, 
in  the  centre  of  which  a  vast  fire  was  always  blazing,  and 
the  din  of  the  heavy  wheelbarrows  of  coal  dumped  on  the 
stones,  the  shouts  of  the  workmen  to  those  below,  the 
creaking  of  rusty  hinges,  the  lurid  light  of  the  flames  on 
the  sooty  faces  of  the  men,  the  coal-dust  blackening  the 
walls  and  windows,  made  this  main  tower  the  noisiest, 
hottest  portion  of  the  vast  Iron  Mills. 

From  the  great    height,   however,  there  was    a  view 


286  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

which  well  repaid  one  for  the  ascent :  the  wide  landscape 
gathered  in  the  distant  mountains,  the  nearer  green  slopes 
of  the  hills,  the  vast  reaches  of  meadows,  the  blue  glitter 
of  summer  streams,  and  the  black  masses  of  forests,  and 
solitary  farm-houses  with  gray  loops  of  smoke  lazily  drift- 
ing out  of  ancient,  wide-mouthed  chimneys,  with  here  and 
there  a  white  group  of  houses  comfortably  nestled  to- 
gether. 

For  the  next  hour  Marjorie  forgot  everything  but  the 
landscape,  going  from  one  open  window  to  another,  watch- 
ing from  her  different  stand-points  the  picturesque  effects 
in  the  soft,  clear  atmosphere  of  the  day.  At  last  she 
drew  her  breath,  smiling  a  little  to  herself,  as  she  won- 
dered what  Ben  would  say  to  see  her  mounted  up  there 
all  alone  among  the  workmen,  who  stared  at  her,  blank 
amazement  distending  their  eyes  and  mouths. 

A  new  squad  of  workmen  had  just  mounted  on  the  ele- 
vator, to  relieve  the  hands  which  had  been  for  the  last 
three  hours  on  "  tower  duty,"  to  use  the  vernacular  of 
the  Mills. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  was  utterly  fearless ;  and  it  struck 
her  now  that  she  might  accomplish  the  descent  by  the 
same  means  that  the  wheelbarrows  and  hands  did  theirs, 
thus  saving  herself  going  down  the  long,  narrow,  dusty 
staircases  by  which  she  had  achieved  her  present  eleva- 
tion. 

She  stepped  forward  and  addressed  the  foremost  of  the 
newly  arrived  party,  while  his  comrades  piled  themselves 
into  the  elevator :  "  How  soon  will  this  return  again  ?  " 


a       THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  287 

"  It'll  be  back  in  two  minutes,  ma'am,  with  the  coal," 
replied  the  man. 

"  And  I  can  go  down  on  it,  and  save  my  feet  that  long, 
dark,  uncomfortable  descent?"  asked  Miss  Carruthers. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am ;  only  it  don't  seem  the  place, 
exactly,  for  a  lady." 

"  Yes,  it  does,  if  she  has  the  nerve  to  try  it,"  answered 
Marjorie,  with  her  sweet,  fearless  smile,  which  shone 
radiant  in  the  listener's  eyes. 

Marjorie's  did  not  take  in  the  whole  group.  If  they 
had,  she  would  have  seen  one  man,  a  little  behind  the 
others,  who  had  started  and  flushed  at  the  first  sound  of 
her  voice,  and  then  turned,  and  with  his  big,  light  eyes, 
drank  in  her  whole  face,  —  something  in  them  that  was 
in  no  other  of  that  group  of  gazers ;  something  awe- 
struck, reverent,  worshipful. 

But,  as  the  girl  stood  and  waited,  her  gaze  went  again 
out  of  the  opposite  window  to  the  landscape,  and  it  seemed 
a  pity  there  was  no  artist  at  the  moment  to  see  the  whole 
grouping,  —  the  fair,  delicate,  high-bred  profile  in  the 
midst  of  the  group  of  bronze,  brawny  figures,  and  the 
great  furnace-fire  behind  with  its  livid  flames,  like  waving 
torchlights  across  the  whole. 

In  a  few  moments  the  elevator  rose,  shaking  the  heavy 
beams  and  masonry  as  it  landed  at  the  top  with  its  load. 

Only  the  day  before  one  of  the  overseers  of  that 
department  of  the  works,  surveying  the  elevator,  had 
said  to  himself,  "  It's  about  time  to  renew  the  ropes.  I'll 
see  it's  done  to-morrow." 

The  next  day,  however,  the  man  had  been  summoned 


288  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.        . 

away,  and,  as  the  great  cable  appeared  to  be  still  in  per- 
fectly sound  condition,  he  gave  no  orders  for  any  change 
before  his  return. 

The  men  stood  aside,  and  Marjorie  Carruthers  took  her 
place  on  the  elevator.  So  fair  a  burden  had  never  rested 
before  on  the  great,  black  flooring.  Some  lurking 
knighthood  at  the  bottom  of  the  coarse,  hard  souls  of  the 
men  made  them  feel  that  the  lady  ought  not  to  make  the 
descent  alone ;  but  she  looked  so  white,  and  pure,  and 
fearless,  that  no  one  had  the  courage  to  offer  to  accom- 
pany her. 

The  girl  gathered  her  shawl  around  her,  and,  turning, 
smiled  her  readiness  to  descend.  The  signal  was  given,  the 
cable  had  just  commenced  uncoiling,  when  suddenly  there 
was  a  sharp,  crackling  sound  that  made  the  nerves  of 
every  one  of  that  group  of  men  quiver  as  though  a  rat- 
tling volley  of  musketry  had  been  fired  into  their  midst ; 
and  with  a  yell  which  seemed  to  tear  itself  out  of  some 
unutterable  anguish  in  his  soul,  and  which  even  in  that 
awful  moment  struck  the  dazed  hearers,  the  man  whose 
big,  light  eyes  all  this  time  had  never  once  turned  their 
gaze  from  Marjorie  Carruthers,  plunged  forward. 

It  was  all  done  in  a  moment ;  swift  as  lightning  or  the 
leap  and  crash  from  mountain  to  valley  of  a  hurricane, 
the  workman  was  on  the  elevator.  Marjorie  Carruthers 
was  never  able  to  recall  any  sense  of  impending  danger  at 
that  time ;  but  she  was  conscious  of  being  caught  fiercely 
and  hurled  up  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  upon  the  tower 
floor,  —  hurled  so  swiftly  that  none  of  the  strong  arms 
involuntarily  stretched  out  could  seize  her ;  and  she  lay 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY.  289 

white  and  bewildered,  and  a  good  deal  bruised  among  the 
dust  and  debris,  and  for  a  little  while  nobody  took  any 
notice  of  her. 

Some  of  the  group  of  stark,  pallid  men  affirmed  long 
afterward  that  the  workman  had  made  one  desperate  leap 
at  the  stationary  beams  over  his  head,  but  it  was  too  late ; 
there  was  another  sharp,  crackling  sound,  and  a  moment 
later,  an  awful  crash,  which  seemed  to  shake  the  mighty 
building  to  its  foundations ;  and  it  flashed  through  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers  that  the  whole  structure  had  given  way, 
and  that  the  great  tower  was  crashing  down  around  her, 
and  that  they  would  all  be  buried  under  its  ruins  ;  and 
then,  —  she  was  not  a  woman  given  to  fainting,  but  she 
must  have  swooned  off  for  a  few  moments  into  uncon- 
sciousness. 

For  a  few  moments  only,  for  not  a  soul  of  that  group 
of  men  had  turned  to  her  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  and 
saw  the  operatives  huddled  together  with  their  hushed, 
pallid  faces. 

It  was  evident  something  awful  had  happened.  Mar- 
jorie  gasped  for  breath,  and  tried  to  raise  herself  up,  but 
her  head  was  dizzy  and  fell  back. 

One  of  the  workmen  caught  sight  of  the  girl  then, 
and  came  over  to  her  at  once,  and  tried  to  lift  up  her 
head,  but  his  hands  shook  so  that  he  did  it  awkwardly 
enough. 

Then  one  and  another  came  and  stood  by  her,  and 
looked  at  her  with  strained,  shocked  eyes. 

"  Are  you  hurt,  ma'am  ?  "  more  than  one  voice  asked, 
kindly  enough,  the  words  creeping  out  of  white  lips. 


290  THE   MILLS    OF  TUX  BURY. 

"I  don't  know.  Tell  me  what  has  happened,"  an- 
swered Marjorie,  sitting  up,  and  finding  herself  shaking 
like  a  leaf. 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  with  blank,  helpless 
faces.  Several  of  their  number  had  already  gone  below. 
"  Tell  me,"  said  Marjorie,  with  that  half-appealing,  half- 
imperative  air  which  men  of  stronger  moral  fibre  than 
the  mill-hands  would  have  found  it  hard  to  resist. 

"  The  cable's  broke,"  cried  more  than  one  voice. 

Even  then  she  did  not  comprehend. 

"  The  cable  has  broken,"  she  repeated  slowly,  trying 
to  gather  in  the  meaning  of  the  'words. 

"Yes,  ma'am;  the  elevator's  gone  down,"  somebody 
answered. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  it  all  flashed  upon  her.  Somebody 
had  seized  hold  of  her  in  that  one  last  moment  of  her 
deadly  peril,  and  wrenched  her  off  and  hurled  her  back 
upon  the  tower  floor.  She  knew  now  why  she  was  lying 
there. 

The  girl  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant.  "Did  any- 
body go  down?"  she  cried,  her  voice  sharp  with  an 
awful  agony  of  fear. 

And  again  the  men  looked  at  each  other  and  did  not 
speak. 

In  a  moment  Marjorie  Carruthers  had  staggered  to  the 
door,  that  old  instinct  of  helpfulness  alive  within  her 
which  had  nerved  the  shrinking,  delicate  woman  to  face 
Death,  —  ay,  to  wrestle  with  him  when  the  need  came. 

The  long,  narrow,  steep  staircase  stretched  before  her. 
Her  strength  gone,  her  nerves  strained,  her  limbs  bruised, 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY.  291 

Marjorie  Carruthers  stood  still  and  gasped  for  breath, 
wondering  whether  she  should  ever  be  able  to  descend. 
The  men  followed  her  closely,  several  going  before,  fan- 
cying she  might  fall  with  every  step,  and  ready  to  seize 
her  in  case  she  did. 

They  would  gladly  have  borne  her  down  in  their  arms, 
but  something  in  the  white,  still  face  made  them  hesitate 
to  offer  this ;  so  she  made  her  way  alone,  clinging  to  the 
railing,  and  pausing  occasionally  and  gasping  for  breath, 
conscious  only  that  she  had  been  just  plucked  from  the 
very  jaws  of  Death,  and  that  she  Avas  going  down  to  meet 
Something  below,  —  was  it  a  shapeless  mass  ?  —  which 
a  moment  before  had  been  the  strong  arm  and  the  brave 
heart  that  had  wrenched  her  out  of  the  elevator  and 
hurled  her  back,  it  seemed  with  the  grip  of  ten  giants, 
upon  the  tower  floor.  Who  was  this  man.  so  ready  to 
sacrifice  his  life  to  save  hers  ? 

She  thought  of  Eleanor,  whom  she  had  left  that  after- 
noon talking  and  jesting  with  her  guests  at  home ;  she 
thought  of  her  lover  and  her  brother  coming  back  that 
night  to  hear  the  awful  story  of  the  life  crushed  out  of 
her  in  one  breath.  Her  swift  fancy  went  over  the  whole 
awful  scene,  and  then  shuddered  away  from  it  to  this 
man  who  only  had  come  between  her  and  that  dreadful 
Death. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  was  never  able  to  remember  her 
descent  of  the  tower  staircase ;  she  could  only  recall 
standing  still  once  on  a  narrow  platform  when  they  had 
accomplished  more  than  half  the  descent,  turning  to  the 


292  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURT. 

men,  and  asking  suddenly,  ' '  Is  there  a  chance  that  he 
may  be  alive?  " 

"  It's  more  than  fifty  feet  from  top  to  bottom,"  an- 
swered one  of  the  men ;  and  Miss  Carruthers  did  not  ask 
another  question.  She  came  among  the  crowd  gathered 
in  the  wide  lower  room  of  the  Furnace  building,  with  her 
white,  beautiful  face,  like  a  spectre  from  the  grave. 

On  a  lounge  in  the  office  just  beyond,  with  the  cushions 
hastily  heaped  under  him,  lay  the  figure  of  a  man,  limp 
and  crushed,  whom  they  had  gathered  up  and  placed 
there  a  few  minutes  before. 

One  of  the  officers,'  coming  out,  saw  the  girj  moving 
toward  the  door.  The  pallor  of  his  face  was  succeeded 
by  an  unutterable  .amazement  as  he  beheld  the  lady. 

He  came  straight  toward  her  :  "  Miss  Carruthers,  how 
did  you  get  down  here?  I  was  just  coming  up  in  search 
of  you." 

"  I  must  have  walked  down,  I  suppose." 

' '  You  did  !  You  came  down  that  long,  steep  staircase  ! 
I  feared  you  must  be  greatly  injured." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  as  though  it  made  no 
difference.  "Is  the  man  in  there?"  glancing  toward 
the  office  door,  the  last  word  freezing  upon  her  lips. 

"  He's  moved  and  groaned  once  or  twice."  Then  they 
heard  one  of  the  men  saying  to  another,  "He'd  have 
been  jest  one  mass  of  jelly  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  load  of 
mould  which  broke  his  fall." 

Marjorie  turned  so  sick  she  would  have  fallen  again,  if 
the  gentleman  had  not  caught  her. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXDVRT.  293 

In  a  moment,  though,  the  girl  had  braced  herself, 
and  was  turning  toward  the  office  door. 

Her  companion  drew  her  back.  "  No,  Miss  Carru- 
thers,"  he  said,  very  decidedly;  "it  is  no  place  for  you 
in  there." 

"But  something  must  be  done.  Have  you  sent  for 
the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  we'll  see  to  everything  of  that  sort.  You 
must  let  me  take  you  home  at  once,  Miss  Carruthers," 
looking  at  the  pallor  of  her  face. 

She  did  not  resist,  but  took  the  man's  arm  meekly  as 
a  child,  for  her  strength  was  fast  leaving  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  orders  to  have  the  man 
brought  over  to  the  house,"  she  said ;  "we  can  make  him 
more  comfortable  there." 

"It  will  be  best,  however,  to  wait  until  the  doctor 
comes,  and  hear  what  he  thinks  of  the  removal,"  answered 
the  officer,  and  she  knew  that  he  thought  it  was  too  late 
for  any  change  now  ;  and  then,  as  the  two  walked  through 
the  building,  she  fell  to  dreaming,  in  a  kind  of  dazed 
way,  of  the  last  words  which  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  had 
said  to  her  as  he  went  away  that  afternoon,  and  every- 
thing else  began  to  seem  like  a  dream,  and  she  forgot  the 
crowd  of  grimed,  shocked  faces  all  around. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  door  she  stood  still.  There 
was  a  carriage  drawn  up  here,  and  the  gentleman  was 
about  to  lift  her  into  it.  Marjorie  waved  him  off  a  mo- 
ment. "  What  was  this  man's  name  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  was  one  of  the  day  hands,  —  Hardy  Shumway  !  " 

"  Hardy  Shumway  !  "    the  name  dropping  like  a  dead 


294  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

weight  out  of  her  white  lips ;  then  a  cry  of  sharp  anguish 
burst  out  of  them  :  — 

"  0  Berry  !  —  little  Berry  !  " 

At  that  moment  a  carriage  dashed  up  to  the  door. 
John  Whitmarsh  and  his  brother  alighted.  Neither  had 
learned  of  the  accident;  but  the  latter  caught  sight  of 
Miss  Carruthers'  figure  in  the  door-way,  and  he  hurried 
toward  her. 

"  Why,  Marjorie  !  —  why,  Marjorie  !  "  he  said. 

"0  Ben!  "  and  with  that  cry  ste  tottered  and  fell 
into  his  arms. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  295 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IT  had  just  struck  Berry  Shumway  that  it  was  past 
the  usual  hour  for  Hardy's  return  home.  She  had  had 
the  busiest,  happiest  day ;  bustling  around  at  one  sort 
of  work  and  another,  for  you  know  what  an  active  little 
body  she  was,  always  keeping  various  f '  irons  in  the  fire. ' ' 

She  had  gone  over,  too,  with  all  her  treasures  that  day, 
making  up  her  mind  just  what  she  would  take  abroad 
and  what  she  would  leave  behind  for  Jane  Coyle  and  the 
other  people  whom  she  liked. 

She  had  had  a  long  walk  down  among  the  meadows, 
for,  despite  a  lurking  anticipation  of  Miss  Carruthers' 
advent  on  this  particular  day,  the  beauty  outside  proved 
irresistible  to  the  girl. 

She  had  been  down  by  the  river  and  gathered  a  few 
smooth  pebbles  for  keepsakes,  telling  herself  it  might  be 
the  last  time  she  would  have  a  stroll  there ;  and  wonder- 
ing if  she  should  ever  think  of  the  blue  gleam  of  the 
river  at  Tuxbury  when  she  walked  by  the  lakes  at  Inter- 
lachen. 

Once  in  a  great  while,  too,  Hardy's  half-expressed 
doubt  that  morning  about  Miss  Carruthers  being  able, 
after  all,  to  accomplish  her  purpose,  came  into  her 
thoughts  and  nettled  them  as  at  first. 

It   seemed  to  Berry  disloyal    to    that  young  lady  to 


296  THE    MILLS    OF   TUXnUTlY. 

question  the  possibility  of  her  carrying  out  any  plans 
which  she  had  avowed  her  determination  to  consummate ; 
but,  despite  all  her  faith,  there  was  a  little  lurking  sense 
of  disappointment  when  night  came  without  bringing 
Miss  Carruthers. 

On  Hardy's  return  that  evening,  his  sister  would 
greatly  have  enjoyed  such  a  triumphant  refutation  of  his 
doubts  as  Miss  Carruthers'  presence  would  have  furnished, 
for  Berry  never  once  questioned  in  her  own  heart  that 
the  lady's  next  visit  would  be  to  announce  the  satisfactory 
arrangement  of  all  her  plans  for  the  journey. 

At  last  she  went  to  the  door  and  looked  down  the 
streets,  —  the  long,  straight  street,  with  its  plank  side- 
walk and  an  occasional  young  maple  or  poplar  before  it. 
She  saw  plenty  of  figures  moving  up  and  down,  but  not 
the  one  she  was  looking  for,  —  not  the  one  who  had  turned 
back  that  morning  and  given  her  a  smile  as  it  went  out 
of  the  gate. 

Then  she  went  into  the  house  and  kindled  the  fire  and 
got  the  teakettle  on,  and  had  just  spread  the  table-cloth, 
when  she  heard  carriage-wheels  rattling  up  to  the  gate. 
Her  heart  stood  still.  Had  Miss  Carruthers  come  at 
last? 

Berry  sprang  to  the  mirror  and  smoothed  her  hair, 
her  fingers  hot  with  anticipation  to  their  very  ends,  when 
there  came  a  sharp,  loud  knock  at  the  front  door.  That 
did  not  seem  like  Miss  Carruthers,  Berry  thought,  as  she 
hastened  to  answer  the  summons. 

"  Good-evening,  my  child  !  "  It  was  the  pleasant  voice 
and  the  pleasant  face  of  Dr.  Avery  that  greeted  her. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBUJKT.  297 

"  0  doctor,"  her  little  brown  hand  in  his  at  once,  "it's 
such  a  great,  long  while  since  I've  seen  you." 

"Yes;  I've  been  away,  you  know,  and  we  doctors 
find  it  hard  work  to  screw  out  a  spare  hour  for  our  friends. 
But  how  has  it  fared  with  you  all  this  time,  my  child  ?  " 
looking  at  the  young,  bright  face  with  an  unutterable 
pity  in  his  eyes,  feeling  how  soon  all  that  must  go  down 
in  the  anguish  of  grief. 

Dr.  Avery  had  come  the  bearer  of  sad  news,  but  in  all 
his  life,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  had  never  shrunk  from 
speaking  the  words  with  which  duty  had  charged  him, 
as  he  did  now  before  that  child's  bright,  honest  eyes. 

"Well,  doctor, — oh,  very  well  indeed,  thank  you. 
I've  been  real  happy, '?  was  the  prompt,  earnest  answer, 
which  made  the  doctor's  errand  a  little  harder  than 
before. 

But  the  words  must  be  spoken,  and  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost. 

"  Berry,"  taking  her  hand  again,  "  I  want  you  to  jump 
into  the  carriage  now,  right  off,  and  take  a  ride  with  me. ' ' 

"  With  you,  doctor?  "  amazement  wide  awake  in  her 
face. 

"Yes,  Berry;  you  are  a  brave  little  girl,  I  think, 
and  could  bear  joy  or  trouble  courageously,  when  the  time 
and  the  need  came." 

"  I  don't  know,  doctor,  I  shouldn't  like  to  try  the 
trouble."  Then  looking  up  and  catching  the  expres- 
sion of  his  eyes,  she  said,  with  a  sudden  gasp  of  breath, 
"Why,  doctor,  has  anything  happened?" 


298  THE   MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY. 

He  drew  her  to  him:  "Yes,  Berry,  my  poor  little 
girl,  something  has  happened." 

He  felt  her  start  and  tremble  all  over.  "  Where,  — 
to  what,  doctor?"  she  cried,  sharply. 

"  Try  and  be  a  woman,  my  little  girl,  now.  I  think 
you  will  not  disappoint  all  our  hopes  of  your  strength 
and  courage,  even  when  you  come  to  know  it  has  hap- 
pened to  Hardy." 

Alas  for  the  bright,  eager  face  of  a  few  minutes  ago  ! 
How  sharp  and  white  it  grew  all  of  a  sudden  !  She 
caught  hold  of  the  doctor  :  "  To  Hardy  !  Oh,  tell  me 
what  has  happened  to  him  !  " 

"  He  has  done  a  very  brave,  noble  deed,  Berry,  — 
one  which  we  shall  remember  and  honor  him  for  as  long 
as  we  live  ;  but  he  has  had  a  fall,  a  very  bad  one,  and  he 
has  asked  for  you,  Berry  ;  and  so  I  have  come  to  carry 
you  over  at  once,  and  there  is  no  time  to  spare." 

"A  fall  — Hardy  hurt  — 0  doctor,  where  is  he?" 
trying  to  grasp  the  meaning  out  of  his  words,  and  trem- 
bling all  over. 

"  He  is  amongst  very  dear  friends  of  his  and  yours,  — 
at  Mr.  Whitmarsh's,  at  Tuxbury.  They  are  all  waiting  for 
you  there." 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  It  was  no  wonder 
the  surprise  had  bewildered  her  for  the  moment. 

"  Berry,"  said  the  doctor,  with  that  calm,  steady  voice 
which  so  often  had  quieted  the  ravings  of  sick-rooms, 
"there  is  much  to  be  done,  and.  as  I  said,  no  time  to  be 
lost.  Bring  your  shawl  and  hat  and  come  with  me." 

Berry  went  at  that  voice,  and  was  back  in  a  breath. 


THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBVRT.  299 

She  stood  still,  while  the  doctor  wrapped  her  up  with 
his  soft,  strong  hands,  and  then  he  led  her  out  and  put 
her  in  the  chaise  she  remembered  so  well ;  her  face  was 
white,  and  there  was  in  it  a  kind  of  blank,  shocked  look, 
but  she  evidently  had  only  half  taken  in  the  facts. 

They  were  hardly  started,  however,  when  she  turned 
suddenly  to  the  physician,  saying,  "  Hardy  was  badly 
hurt,  you  said;  not  dangerously,  you  don't  mean?" 

' '  I  fear  he  is,  Berry. ' ' 

She  leaned  back  then  with  a  dreadful  cry:  "  0  my 
poor,  dear  Hardy  !  " 

The  sound  hurt  the  old  doctor's  heart  cruelly.  She 
clutched  his  arm  :  "  He's  all  I've  got  in  the  world.  0 
doctor,  you  will  save  him,  won't  you?  " 

"  I'll  do  everything  for  the  brave,  noble  fellow  that  is 
in  the  power  of  man  to  do,  Berry.  You  don't  know  yet 
what  reason  you  have  to  be  proud  of  your  brother,  my 
child." 

"I  always  knew  that,  though  nobody  else  did,"  she 
sobbed,  and  even  then  there  was  a  gleam  of  pleasure 
through  her  tears,  at  the  sweet  praise. 

In  a  minute  she  asked,  with  the  feverish  impatience  of 
sudden  grief,  "But  how  did  it  happen?  I  want  to 
know,  doctor." 

"It  all  happened  saving  the  life  of  Miss  Carruthers. 
There  was  only  a  moment  between  her  and  death,  and  in 
that  moment  your  brother  came  between." 

"  Hardy  did  !  Hardy  did  !  "  amazement  checking  her 
sobs. 

"Yes,  dear,  Hardy  has  saved  her  life." 


300  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

"  Oh,  the  dear,  sweet,  beautiful  lady  that  I  loved  so, 
and  —  that  Hardy  worshipped  !  " 

"  You  are  glad  that  she  is  safe,  I  know." 

"  Oh,  yes,  doctor,  so  very  glad,  only  I  can't  lose  Har- 
dy either,  —  oh,  I  can't !  "  and  again  she  sobbed. 

Dr.  Avery  could  not  answer  her.  He  knew  only  too 
well  that  no  agony  of  grief  and  love  could  avail  now  to 
draw  back  Hardy  Shumway  from  the  current  that  was 
fast  setting  shoreward  with  him.  But  he  commenced  re- 
lating to  Berry  the  history  of  Marjorie  Carruthers'  visit 
to  the  Mills  that  afternoon,  and  how  she  had  ascended 
the  tower,  and  how  at  last  she  had  gone  upon  the  eleva- 
tor, when  of  a  sudden  the  great  central  cable  gave  way ; 
the  men  heard  it  parting,  and  knew  in  a  moment  what  the 
sound  meant ;  but  Hardy  had  been  the  one  brave  hero 
who  had  sprung  forward,  seized  Miss  Carruthers,  and 
hurled  her  back  into  the  tower,  when  the  next  breath 
must  have  dashed  her  a  shapeless  mass  upon  the  ground, 
fifty  feet  below. 

Hardy  had  gone  down  with  the  elevator  ;  but  the  huge 
thing  had  tilted  on  one  side,  and  they  picked  the  man  up 
from  a  heap  of  soft  earth  which  had  been  dumped  there 
an  hour  ago  for  the  moulding-rooms,  so  the  fall  had  been 
broken,  and  the  man's  life  not  crushed  out  of  him  in  a 
breath. 

The  doctor  had  driven  rapidly  all  the  while  he  was 
talking.  He  did  not  mean  to  give  Berry  any  further 
chance  to  question  him,  and  she  choked  back  her  sobs  to 
listen,  although  every  few  moments  they  burst  out  invol- 
untarily. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  301 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  Mr.  Whitmarsh's  gate. 
The  sun  had  gone  behind  the  mountains,  and  the  brown 
twilight  filled  the  air.  Ben  Whitmarsh  must  have  been 
on  the  watch  for- them,  for  he  came  out  at  once  and  took 
Berry  right  in  his  arms,  lifting  her  out  of  the  chaise, 
saying,  "  Ah,  my  little  friend,  I  am  very  glad  you  have 
come." 

A  look  of  intelligence  passed  between  the  two  men,  and 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh  said  to  the  doctor,  "  There's  been 
no  apparent  change  since  you  left.  He  seems  to  suffer 
very  little  pain ;  but  I  think  he  grows  feebler." 

Then  he  took  Berry's  hand,  and  between  the  two  men 
she  walked  into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Whitmarsh  met  her  in  the  hall.  She  had  just 
come  down  from  her  cousin's  room,  for  the  girl  had 
hardly  been  able  to  stand  when  she  reached  home,  after 
all  this  strain  and  excitement,  and  they  had  carried  her 
upstairs  at  once. 

The  young  matron's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping ;  but 
she  bent  down  and  kissed  Berry,  and  took  off  her  hat  and 
smoothed  her  hair,  as  the  girl  could  never  remember  any- 
body's doing  save  the  poor,  dead  mother's  hand  which 
had  dropped  away  from  its  caresses  so  long  before. 

"  Marjorie  wants  to  see  her  first,  and  I  have  promised 
to  carry  her  up  there,"  said  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

"  Will  it  be  well  for  either  of  them,  doctor?  "  asked 
the  brother-in-law,  standing  doubtfully  by  the  balustrade. 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  can  do  any  harm,"  replied  Dr. 
Avery.  "You  had  best  not  keep  her  long,  though." 

So  the  two,   Ben  Whitmarsh    and    his    sister-in-law, 


302  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

went  up  to  Miss  Carruthers'  room  with  Berry  Shumway. 
It  would  have  seemed  to  the  young  girl's  unaccustomed 
eyes,  at  any  other  time,  that  she  was  entering  some  fairy 
bower  of  grace  and  beauty,  but  now  she  was  only  con- 
scious of  the  figure  lying  on  the  lounge,  with  the  great, 
beautiful  eyes  shining  out  of  the  white  face. 

Miss  Carruthers  rose  up  at  once,  and  put  out  her  arms. 
"  I  thought  you  would  come  to  me  a  moment,  even  now, 
Berry,"  she  said ;  and  the  girl  rushed  forward,  and  the 
lady's  arms  closed  around  her. 

"Ah,  Berry,  do  you  know  where  I  should  be  this 
moment  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  brother?"  asked 
Marjorie  Carruthers  when  she  could  speak. 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know,"  sobbing  and  clinging  to  the 
lady.  "  0  ma'am,  I'm  so  glad  that  he  saved  you  !  " 

"That  was  the  very  first  question  he  asked  when  he 
came  back  to  consciousness,"  said  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  : 
"  '  Is  the  lady  safe?  '  "  and  he  came  over  and  stood  by 
the  two. 

Just  then  his  elder  brother  knocked  at  the  chamber- 
door :  "He's  been  asking  for  her  again.  He  knows 
she  is  here  now." 

"  Berry,  we  will  go  down  together,"  said  young  Whit- 
marsh,  taking  her  hand.  "  Can  you  be  very  calm  and 
brave  now  ?  Can  you  keep  in  mind  that  your  brother  is  a 
very  sick  man,  and  it  will  not  do  to  excite  him  ?  " 

"I'll  try,  I'll  try  very  hard,"  said  Berry,  shaking  all 
over,  and  swallowing  her  sobs  and  her  tears  together. 
Then  again  that  cry  burst  out  of  her  in  a  swift  spasm  of 
anguish,  — that  cry  which  the  doctor  had  heard  before, 


THE    MILLS   OF   TUXBVRT.  303 

and  those  who  did  now,  never  forgot  it :    "  0  my  poor, 
dear  Hardy !  " 

Then  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  saying  no  word,  because 
he  could  not,  took  hold  of  her  hand  and  led  her  away. 


304  THE   MILLS   OF  TVXBURT. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  0,  HARDY  !  "  a  sharp,  groping  kind  of  cry  wring- 
ing itself  out  of  her  heart  and  through  her  lips,  and 
Berry  Shumway  came  through  the  door-way  into  the  room 
where  Hardy  lay,  where  they  had  laid  him  at  the  first,  — 
the  very  room  where  last  winter  Benjamin  Whitmarsh 
had  worn  away  the  slow,  dreary  days  and  nights  of  his 
convalescence. 

Two  hours  before  they  had  laid  the  young  workman 
there,  doubtful  whether  the  shattered  life  in  the  big,  lum- 
bering frame  would  ever  wake  up  to  consciousness  again. 

It  was  not  yet  all  over,  as  they  had  half  believed,  for 
Hardy  Shumway.  After  the  doctor  came,  for  whom 
young  Whitmarsh  had  himself  started  at  once,  the  man, 
with  a  few  convulsive  gasps,  had  opened  his  eyes  and 
strained  and  stared  wildly  at  the  white,  shocked  faces 
about  him. 

In  a  few  moments  the  truth  came  back  on  him.  Every- 
body knew  when  that  happened,  by  the  look  in  his  face. 

"  Is  the  lady  safe?  "  his  voice  loud  and  clear  enough 
to  startle  the  people  in  the  next  room  with  its  sharp  greedi- 
ness, —  "Is  the  lady  safe?  "  his  first  question,  not  for 
himself,  you  see,  not  even  for  the  little  sister  whose  face, 
as  he  had  left  it  smiling  on  him  in  the  low  door-way  that 
morning,  had  clung  to  his  thoughts  all  day. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXDURY.  305 

Ben  Whitmarsh,  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  bent  his  face 
over  the  wounded  man  and  spoke  a  few  chcked  words,  so 
low  that  nobody  else  caught  them.  But  young  Shumway 
moved  his  head  a  little,  and  looked  straight  in  the  eyes 
bending  over  him,  —  such  a  look  that  those  who  saw 
never  forgot  it.  It  had  something  of  the  awful  joy  of  a 
man  on  the  battle-field,  with  the  life-blood  oozing  out  of 
him,  while  the  shouts  of  victory,  in  the  air  around,  fall 
upon  his  dulling  senses.  It  seemed  to  transfigure  all  at 
once  the  big,  pallid  face  upon  the  pillows.  "  Thank  God, 
oh,  thank  God !  "  he  said,  and  his  lips  worked  and  quiv- 
ered over  the  words,  and  then  were  still. 

He  did  not  suffer  much  pain.  Indeed,  there  were  few 
outward  signs  of  that  dreadful  fall ;  but  the  shock  had 
paralyzed  his  lower  limbs,  and  the  injuries  were  mostly 
of  an  internal  character. 

Dr.  Avery's  examination  of  his  patient  was  a  very 
brief  one:  a  few  questions,  a  few  touches  of  pulse  and 
crushed  limbs,  and  the  skilled  surgeon  knew  where  the 
hurt  lay,  and  what  it  all  meant.  All  the  time  Hardy 
Shumway  watched  the  old  doctor  with  curious  eyes,  but 
not  half  so  eagerly  as  those  about  him  did ;  holding  back 
their  breaths,  for  the  sentence  of  life  or  death  hung  on  a 
shake  of  that  fine,  old  gray  head.  "  Did  the  man  lying 
there  know  it  too?"  they  wondered,  watching  his  eyes 
following  the  doctor  with  dull  curiosity,  much  as  though 
the  whole  did  not  concern  himself.  They  would  have 
fancied  the  poor  fellow's  brain  was  still  half  stunned,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  that  greedy  cry  a  few  moments  before. 

At  last  the  doctor  bent  down,  his  face  unmoved  still, 


306  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

so  that  one  could  not  dive  to  the  meanings  below  it :  "Is 
there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  my  poor  fellow?  "  his 
voice  soft  as  a  mother's ;  that  very  softness  telling  some- 
thing to  Hardy  Shumway's  soul,  if  it  did  not  to  the 
others'. 

The  man's  lips  fumbled  together  a  moment;  then  he 
cried  out,  "  Berry  !  I  want  little  Berry  !  " 

"I'll  go  for  her,"  said  the  doctor,  and  he  went  out 
without  another  word,  and  without  another,  also,  Benja- 
min Whitmarsh  followed  him. 

In  the  hall  the  two  men  faced  each  other. 

"  Doctor  —  "he  stopped  there. 

"  If  there  was  the  barest  ghost  of  a  chance,  you  know 
I  wouldn't  leave  him,  Ben,"  said  the  elder. 

"But  to  have  him  die  like  this !  Giving  his  life  to 
save  hers  !  "  burst  out  the  younger.  "  I  never  faced  so 
heroic  a  deed  in  my  life.  It  shames,  staggers  me.  0 
doctor,  I'd  give  the  last  dollar  I  possess  —  "  He  could 
get  no  farther. 

'"All  the  skill  in  the  world  could  not  avail  now  for 
the  poor  fellow.  A  brave,  glorious  deed,  as  you  say;  " 
his  voice  clutching  at  the  last  words,  as  though  he  feared 
it  would  have  to  let  them  go. 

"How  long  will  it  be  first?"  asked  young  Whit- 
marsh. 

"He  may  hold  out  until  after  midnight." 

"  No  longer  than  that?  "  with  a  great  start. 

"  You  want  the  truth,  Whitmarsh  :  you  are  a  man 
and  must  bear  it.  When  the  dawn  comes  up  the  east 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  307 

yonder,  the  eyes  of  the  poor  fellow  lying  in  there  will 
not  turn  to  see  it." 

And  with  those  words  the  doctor  had  gone  for  Berry. 

So  she  had  come,  and,  with  the  first  sharpness  of 
agony  at  sight  of  the  pallid  face  on  the  pillows,  a  cry 
rung  out  on  her  lips,  "  0  Hardy  !  "  and 'Berry  rushed 
forward  to  the  bedside. 

There  were  people  all  around  her,  but  Berry  Shum- 
way  would  not  have  known,  if  they  had  stood  many  a 
phalanx  deep;  there  was  nobody  in  the  whole,  great, 
wide,  gaping,  noisy  world,  to  tne  tender,  tortured  heart 
of  this  child,  but  just  herself  and  this  big,  helpless  man, 
who  lay  there  with  his  limbs  like  blocks  of  stone,  and  his 
heavy,  livid  face. 

The  dull  eyes  cleared  and  lighted  in  a  moment  at  that 
cry.  She  came  right  up  and  put  her  cheek  down  to  her 
brother's,  in  just  the  way  she  used  to  do  when  she  was  a 
little,  motherless  toddler  around  the  old,  bare  room  so 
long  ago,  and  Hardy  would  come  home  at  night,  tired 
and  cross ;  and  that  little  child's  soft,  warm  cheek  laid 
up  against  his  own  was  the  only  thing. in  the  world 
Hardy  Shumway  had  to  cling  to ;  and  small  and  soft 
as  it  was,  I  tell  you  that  child's  cheek  had  kept  the 
heart  within  him  from  many  a  time  going  straight  to  the 
devil. 

"Little  Berry,"  putting  out  his  hand  and  fumbling 
with  the  big  fingers  feebly  at  her  hair;  "poor  little 
Berry!  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  the  white,  dull  face 
shining  on  her  now  with  a  great  love  and  a  great  pity. 

The    shock    of  the  last  hour  had   bewildered  Berry 


308  TfiK    .!///./..<?    OF   TUXBURT. 

Shumway,  much  as  a  stunning  blow  would.  She  only 
half  took  in  Hardy's  desperate  condition.  She  knew 
that  he  had  some  dreadful  hurt,  and  that  he  lay  sick  and 
helpless  before  her,  but  she  did  not  suspect  that  Some- 
thing which  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  him,  and 
that  her  warm,  swift  little  hands  could  not  keep  at 
bay. 

They  kept  at  work  now,  though,  smoothing  his  pillow 
and  smiling  at  him,  and  Berry  did  not  know  that  her 
cheeks  were  wet,  and  that  she  kept  swallowing  her  tears 
all  the  time  she  was  talking. 

"  Do  you  suffer  any  pain,  Hardy  1 "  she  asked. 

"  Not  much,  Berry.  Never  mind  that.  I'm  glad 
you've  come,  little  sister." 

"  You  dear  fellow  !  As  though  I  wouldn't  have  gone 
straight  to  the  ends  of  the  world  after  you  !  We'll  have 
you  up  in  a  day  or  two.  I'll  take  precious  care  of  you. 
Don't  you  know  how  I  nursed  you  through  that  fever 
ever  so  long  ago,  and  the  doctor  said  nobody  else  could 
have  done  it  so  well?  I  al'ays  know  just  what  you 
want,  Hardy." 

"  Yes,  I  remember;  but  this  is  worse  than  the  fever, 
Berry  —  pretty  little  Berry." 

"  No  matter,"  she  said ;  "  I'm  older  than  I  was  then, 
—  ever  so  much,  and  real  tough.  I  can  stand  it, 
Hardy." 

What  went  on  in  Hardy  Shumway's  soul  as  he  lis- 
tened to  the  child's  pretty,  coaxing  talk,  only  God 
knew. 

The  young  workman  must  have  thought  over  all  her 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  309 

daily  loving,  fussing  ways,  the  humming  voice,  the 
smiling  face,  the  little  scoldings  and  pets,  and  the  warm, 
true,  honest  little  heart  that  never  failed  him  in  the  lov- 
ing or  scolding ;  he  must  have  thought,  too,  of  what  life 
would  be  to  her  without  him,  left  all  alone  in  the  world, 
the  days  coming  and  going,  with  nothing  for  the  warm, 
loving  heart  to  cling  to  ;  he  knew  how  it  needed  him. 
What  would  become  of  it,  left  cold  and  empty  and  deso- 
late in  the  world  ?  His  face  quivered  and  shook  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  Hardy  Shumway  cried  out  sharply,  "  0 
Berry,  it  will  come  hard  to  leave  you  —  it  will !  ' ' 

Anything  less  than  stone,  seeing  that  scene,  hearing 
that  cry,  must  have  melted,  and  they  were  men  and 
women  with  human  hearts  in  them  who  stood  around  that 
bedside. 

Berry  looked  up  swiftly  in  the  doctor's  face  at  that  cry  ; 
an  awful  terror  leaped  into  and  strained  her  eyes  wide. 
She  half  took  in  Hardy's  meaning,  and  the  blood  froze  at 
her  heart.  Then  she  turned  back  and  flung  her  arms 
around  her  brother's  neck  and  cried  out  fiercely  :  "  Oh, 
but  you  won't  die,  Hardy, — you  mustn't.  God  won't 
be  so  cruel,  — he  can't,  — as  to  take  you  away  from  me, 
when  he  knows  you  are  all  I  have  in  the  world.  What 
would  I  do  without  you,  Hardy,  in  the  old  home  ?  It 
would  be  so  dark  and  lonesome  there.  How  could  I  live 
without  having  you  to  think  about  and  care  for  all  day, 
to  do  up  your  breakfast  o' mornings,  and  run  down  to  the 
lane  or nights  to  walk  home  with  you  ?  I  couldn't  live 
without  you,  you  know  I  couldn't:  but  you'll  get  well, 
dear  old  Hardy  !  you  know  you  will,  just  for  my  sake, 


310  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

and  'cause  you  know  what  it  would  be  to  me  if  you  didn't ; 
and  we  will  have  the  old  happy  times  in  the  dear  little 
home,  —  happier  than  ever.  I've  been  cross  sometimes, 
I  know  I  have,  and  made  a  fuss  about  the  tobacco-smoke 
and  things ;  but  I  won't  any  more.  When  you  come 
back  you  shall  sit  right  by  the  fire  with  your  pipe  all 
day,  and  I  won't  say  a  word,  and  we  will  be  so  happy, 
and  you'll  get  real  well  and  strong  in  a  little  while, 
Hardy,  — just  a  little  while." 

They  were  men  and  women,  as  I  said,  with  human 
hearts  in  them,  who  listened  to  that  child's  talk  as  they 
stood  around  the  bedside ;  not  many,  it  is  true ;  but  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  had  come  downstairs,  and  their 
brother  stood  in  the  next  room,  and  the  door  was  ajar,  and 
every  word  came  to  him  ;  and  there  were  the  house-ser- 
vants and  several  men  from  the  Mills,  and  one  or  two 
distant  neighbors,  who  had  learned  of  the  accident  and 
hurried  over  to  the  house  to  be  on  hand  at  call ;  and  all 
of  these  heard  and  saw,  and  to  their  dying  day  not  one 
will  forget.  Hardy  Shumway  looked  up  in  the  doctor's 
face :  its  goodness,  its  strength,  its  unutterable  pity 
struck  him  at  that  moment.  "  She'll  be  all  alone,  all 
alone,  little  Berry,"  he  said,  with  an  anguish  of  appeal 
that  went  straight  to  the  old  man's  heart. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  the  girl's  head,  the  words  were 
at  his  lips,  when  there  was  a  sudden  step  at  the  bedside, 
and  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  leaned  his  face  once  more  over 
the  face  on  the  pillows.  "  Give  the  child  to  us,  Shum- 
way," he  said;  "she  shall  not  be  alone  in  the  world. 
We  will  take  her  to  our  home,  Marjorie  and  I  —  "  he 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBUBY.  311 

could  get  no  farther,  and  the  room  was  full  of  sobs. 
Hardy  Shumway  looked  up  in  the  young  man's  face; 
his  heavy  jaw  worked  a  moment.  "  Marjorie  and  you  !  " 
he  muttered,  not  seeming  to  take  in  what  had  gone. 

They  fancied  his  mind  was  wandering  a  little  :  "  Yes, 
Miss  Carruthers,  the  lady  whose  life  you  saved,  my  poor, 
brave  fellow  !  ' '  and  after  that  he  bent  down  his  head,  and 
said  something  to  the  workman  that  the  others  could  not 
hear. 

Hardy  Shumway  half  raised  his  head  from  his  pillow, 
a  great  light  shot  up  over  his  whole  face,  the  eyes  glowed 
like  coals  of  fire  with  some  strange  joy ;  he  kept  staring 
at  Ben  Whitmarsh.  "  Thank  God  !  oh,  thank  God  !  " 
he  said,  and  there  was  a  low,  happy  laugh  choking  and 
gurgling  in  his  throat. 

"His  mind  wanders,"  the  people  around  whispered. 

Perhaps  he  heard  them.  At  any  rate  a  look  of  bright 
intelligence  was  in  the  eyes  he  turned  now  full  on  Ben- 
jamin Whitmarsh. 

"I've  done  something  for  you  sir,  then ?  "  he  said,  in 
a  voice  half  proud  and  half  humble,  but  eager  and  ex- 
ultant. 

"  Something  for  me  !  My  dear  fellow,  you've  done 
for  me  the  greatest  good  that  it  was  in  the  power  of  liv- 
ing man  to  $o,"  answered  Ben  Whitmarsh,  with  a  solem- 
nity that  conquered  his  agitation  at  that  moment.  ' '  You 
have  saved  her  life,  and  that  is  dearer  to  me  than  my 


Again    that  flash    of  delight  all  over  the   livid  face. 
Thank  God!  "  and  again  the  happy  laugh  gurgled  in 


61:1  THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  HURT. 

his  throat.  Berry  did  not  know  what  it  meant.  The 
poor,  broken-hearted,  bewildered  thing  clung  still  to  the 
hope  that  Hardy  would  live,  and  they  two  would  go  back 
to  the  old  house,  and  things  would  go  on  just  as  they 
had  done  before. 

She  was  not  surprised  at  what  Hardy  had  done.  What- 
ever he  might  seem  to  others,  the  stolid  young  workman, 
with  his  dull  face  and  lumbering  figure,  had  always  been 
a  hero  in  her  eyes ;  as  pure  and  noble  as  those  whom 
high-born  maidens  used  to  watch  from  latticed  windows, 
going  out  with  plume  and  war-horse  to  right  the  wronged 
and  do  battle  with  evil  wherever  they  found  it. 

The  generous  courage  with  which  Hardy  had  leaped 
to  Miss  Carruthers'  defence  in  her  deadly  peril  was  not  a 
thing  which  amazed  Berry  Shurnway,  whatever  others 
might  think  of  it. 

Just  at  that  instant  there  was  a  movement  at  the  door, 
and  they  saw  Marjorie  Carruthers  coming  in ;  one  of 
the  servants,  excited  past  control  at  the  scene  below,  had 
burst  into  the  lady's  chamber  and  told  her  how  Berry 
Shumway  was  "  going  on,  over  that  poor  dying  man." 
Miss  Carruthers  was  lying  on  the  couch ;  she  rose  up, 
forgetting  that  her  head  was  dizzy  and  her  limbs  sore 
with  bruises,  and  she  came  downstairs.  Benjamin  Whit- 
marsh  had  put  his  arm  around  Berry  Shumway,  and  the 
poor  thing  was  clinging  to  him,  with  long,  shivering  sobs  ; 
but,  at  sight  of  Miss  Carruthers,  he  placed  the  girl  in 
Doctor  Avery's  arms  and  sprang  to  the  lady's  side. 

"  You  are  not  fit  to  come  in  here,  Marjorie,"  he  said, 
quickly. 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  313 

"No  matter;  he  must  not  die  without  my  telling 
him ;  "  and  she  came  right  forward  to  the  bed,  with  her 
white,  beautiful  face,  and  she  and  Hardy  Shumway 
looked  at  each  other. 

There  she  stood,  the  woman  whose  life  he  had  saved ; 
there  he  lay,  the  man  who  had  given  his v  life  to  rescue 
hers,  and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  save  the  faint 
swashing  of  the  winds  among  the  vine-leaves  by  the  open 
window.  Then  Marjorie  Carruthers  broke  out  of  a  sud- 
den: "  I  have  no  right  to  stand  here,  with  my  life  whole 
and  sound  within  me,  and  see  you  lying  there.  Berry 
needed  you,  and  I  —  why  didn't  you  leave  me  to  die, 
Hardy  Shumway?" 

In  her  agony  of  grief  at  that  instant  she  wished  from 
her  soul  he  had  done  that. 

"  But  there  was  one  needed  you,  too.  I  saved  you 
for  him,  —  for  him  !  "  a  flash  of  joy  in  his  eyes,  as  they 
went  in  search  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh. 

He  had  come  to  the  bedside  now  and  drawn  his  arm 
around  Miss  Carruthers,  and  so  they  two  stood  before 
Hardy  Shumway.  It  was  no  time  for  ordinary  ceremo- 
nies, when  Life  and  Death  faced  each  other.  "  I  take  her 
from  your  hands,  my  dear  fellow.  Would  to  God  there  was 
something  I  could  do  worthily  for  you  in  turn !  "  and 
even  Berry  stood  still,  with  the  doctor's  arm  around  her, 
and  held  her  breath  to  listen. 

"  For  me  in  turn  !  Did  you  say  that?  "  lifting  his 
head  from  the  pillow,  a  dreadful  greediness  in  his  eyes, 
like  a  man  who  pleads  with  his  executioner  for  life.  "  If 
you  would  say  one  word,  — just  one,  —  I  should  be  paid, 


314  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

feelin'  God  would  do  it  then,  too;  "  his  head  sinking 
back,  his  hands  fumbling  and  groping  at  the  bedclothes, 
and  again  the  people  around  muttered,  "  His  mind  wan- 
ders !  ':  Benjamin  Wiitrnarsh  thought  this  also ;  neverthe- 
less he  leaned  over  the  pillows,  saying,  passionately,  as 
though  he  were  calling  out  into  that  dark  and  distance 
where  the  man's  soul  was  drifting,  ;£  If  there  is  anything 
I  can  say  or  do  for  you,  I  need  not  say  it  shall  be  done." 

The  young  workman  looked  up.  What  a  contrast 
there  was  in  the  two  faces,  if  one  could  notice  such  things 
at  such  a  time,  —  the  large,  blunt  features,  the  massive 
jaws,  the  coarsely  hewn  outlines  of  the  one,  with  the  del- 
icate carving,  the  fine  strength  and  force  of  the  other  ! 

Hardy  Shumway's  gaze  seemed  at  that  moment  to  go 
past  the  face  into  the  soul  lying  behind  it,  —  to  dive 
down,  one  might  have  half  fancied,  into  the  very  quick 
of  this  man's  nature,  to  find  whether  there  lay  deep  in  it 
some  mighty  pity  and  tenderness  to  which  he  could  trust 
himself;  longing  and  doubt  struggled  in  the  man's  face  ; 
he  glanced  at  Berry  in  a  way  that  was  more  like  fright 
than  anything  else.  "  I  dare  not  do  it,"  muttering  half 
to  himself;  "  I  dare  not,  for  her  sake.  It  couldn't  harm 
me  now ;  I've  done  what  I  could  to  atone ;  God  knows 
that ;  yet  it  would  be  a  little  easier  to  go  to  him  now,  if 
I  could  hear  the  words."  Then  he  started,  and  stared 
all  around  him  as  though  he  feared  something  had  passed 
his  lips  which  should  have  been  forced  back. 

Berry  thought  with  the  others  that  her  brother  did  not 
know  what  he  was  saying ;  but  Dr.  Avery  had  been 
watching  silently  every  change  that  went  over  the  man's 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  315 

face.  He  was  used  to  the  babble  of  sick  and  dying  men, 
and  he  knew  what  truth  and  meaning  often  underlay  their 
wild,  incoherent  talk. 

He  came  forward  now  and  bent  over  the  sick  man. 
"  My  friend,"  said  the  soft,  solemn  voice  of  the  old  phy- 
sician, taking  hold  of  the  big,  groping  fingers,  "if  there 
is  anything  on  your  mind  that  you  would  like  to  say  to 
us,  —  anything  you  would  like  to  have  us  know  or  ask 
us  to  do,  —  do  not  hesitate  to  speak  now ;  these  are  only 
friends  around  you,  —  friends  your  brave,  generous  heart 
has  won  for  you,  —  friends  ready  to  serve  you  with  all 
their  hearts  and  souls.  Will  you  speak  ?  " 

Hardy  Shumway  looked  up  in  the  doctor's  face,  — the 
kindly  face  under  the  gray  hair ;  the  white  lips  worked, 
a  great  trouble  came  into  his  eyes  :  "  There's  something 
I'd  like  to  confess;  only  it  would  come  hard, — yet  I 
want  to  die  in  peace,"  the  big  jaw  quivering. 

The  doctor  bent  nearer,  so  that  the  others  could  not 
hear:  "I  cannot  judge  for  you,  my  poor  fellow.  If 
there  is  any  wrong  you  can  right,  it  will  be  better  to 
speak  now ;  and  I  think  it  will  make  it  easier  to  go  to 
that  God,  tenderer  and  more  pitiful  than  your  mother 
when  she  rocked  you  on  her  knee." 

The  ashen  jaws  quivered  again:  "You  think  I'm 
going  to  him  in  a  little  while,  doctor?  " 

"In  a  little  while,  I  think." 

He  lay  quite  still  a  moment  after  that.  Then  he 
signed  the  doctor  to  draw  near  again  ;  his  eyes  were  not 
dull  now,  but  the  bright  life  was  full  of  fright  or  horror. 

"It's  something  I  did  once,  doctor,"  speaking  very 


316  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

rapidly,  as  though  he  feared  he  should  not  be  able  to  get 
the  words  out.  "  Nobodj  knows  in  the  world.  It  would 
kill  Berry,  and  it  would  turn  all  of  you  against  me,  — 
make  you  cast  me  out  from  your  doors,  even  now." 

For  a  moment  Dr.  Avery  himself  fancied  the  man's 
brain  was  wandering ;  but  through  all  the  agitation  of 
Hardy  Shumway's  face  the  eyes  held  a  clear  light, —  he 
knew  what  he  was  saying. 

"  Don't  talk  of  our  hating  you,  my  poor  fellow,  after 
what  you  have  done.  No.  matter  what  the  wrong  was, 
you  have  earned  your  pardon." 

Hardy  started  now.  "Do  you  really  think  that?" 
his  face  full  of  a 'dreadful  eagerness.  "If  I  could  only 
hear  him  say  it,  I  could  die  easy  when  the  time  comes." 

"Who  is  lie?"  asked  the  doctor;  then  he  added, 
"Tell  me  or  not,  as  you  like,"  for  he  would  not  force 
himself  on  the  dying  man's  confidence. 

Hardy  Shumway  did  not  answer,  but  his  gaze  shot 
straight  over  to  where  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  stood  a 
little  way  off,  and  he  had  gathered  Berry's  head  upon 
his  shoulder. 

Dr.  Avery  was  puzzled.  Whatever  the  wrong  was, 
which  lay  heavy,  in  his  dying  hour,  on  the  workman's 
conscience,  the  doctor  saw  his  soul  would  not  go  out 
peacefully  to  meet  the  Death  that  was  coming  unless  the 
man  made  full  confession  of  his  sin.  Perhaps  the  deed 
at  this  time  assumed  a  magnitude  and  complexion  to 
Hardy  Shumway's  imagination  which  it  did  not  in 
reality  possess.  At  least,  the  physician  hoped  so. 


THE   MILLS    0V   TUXBURY.  317 

The  man's  closed  eyes  opened  of  a  sudden.  "  I  can't 
die  first.  I  must  tell,  doctor,"  he  moaned. 

' '  Shall  I  send  them  all  away  ?  To  whom  will  you 
tell  it?"  asked  Dr.  Avery,  with  a  feeling  that  this 
might  be  more  serious  than  he  had  suspected. 

"I  shall  want  you  by  me,  doctor;  "and  again  his 
gaze  went  in  quest  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  and  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers.  "  She  must  be  here,  too,"  he  said. 

Dr.  Avery  understood.  Everybody,  even  to  Berry 
herself,  supposed  that  the  young  workman's  confidence 
related  solely  to  his  sister,  and  the  poor,  heart-broken 
thing  submitted  readily  to  be  led  away  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Whitmarsh ;  only  when  she  reached  the  door  the  child 
turned  and  said  to  Hardy,  with  a  pitiful  attempt  at  a 
smile,  "  I  may  come  back  pretty  soon?  " 

"Yes,  pretty  soon,  little  Berry;  "  and  then  the  door 
closed,  and  these  three.  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  and  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers  and  Dr.  Avery,  were  alone  with  the 
dying  man. 

They  raised  his  head  upon  the  pillows,  for  his  breath 
came  in  hard,  swift  gasps  now,  and  the  lividness 
deepened  around  the  heavy  jaws,  and  the  fingers  tore 
convulsively  at  the  bed-covers.  It  was  dreadful  to  see 
him. 

"  There,  my  friend,  don't  try  to  tell  us.  Let  it  go," 
said  young  Whitmarsh,  smoothing  away  the  thick, 
coarse  hair  from  the  man's  forehead.  "It's  cruel  in 
you  to  torment  yourself  so,  Shumway." 

"  She  wasn't  to  blame.  You  won't  ever  let  her 
know  —  little  Berry!  It  would  kill  her.  You'll  be 


318  .  THE  MILLS   OF   TUXBURY. 

good  to  her,  just  the  same  as  though  she  wasn't  the 
sister  of —  "  his  voice  shook  and  shrank  there. 

The  men  and  the  woman  gave  their  promise  eagerly. 
To  the  day  of  her  death  Berry  should  never  hear  her 
brother's  confession,  whatever  that  might  be. 

Then  Hardy  Shumway  turned  and  looked .  —  first  in 
the  face  of  Benjamin  Whitmarsh,  and  then  at  Marjorie 
Carruthers,  as  they  stood  by  his  bedside.  Whether  it 
was  fright  or  the  Death  close  at  hand  which  made  that 
cold  terror  in  his  face,  no  one  could  tell.  The  gaze  that 
wandered  with  that  awful  appeal  over  the  man  and 
woman,  dropped  and  fell.  He  put  his  shaking  hands 
over  his  face.  He  cried  out,  and  his  cry  was  :  "It  was 
me  and  Blatchley  did  it !  " 

"Did  what?"  cried  the  trio  of  voices  involuntarily, 
and  each  one  shuddered  at  something  that  was  to  come. 

"  That  came  so  near  murderin'  you  one  night  last 
winter  1 " 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  was  a  man  of  strong  nerves,  but 
he  sickened  and  staggered  to  the  window  for  fresh  air, 
and  Marjorie  Carruthers  followed  him,  clutching  wildly 
at  her  lover's  arm,  as  though  the  blow  of  that  night  had 
struck  him  down  again.  "  0  my  God  !  my  God  !  "  she 
cried,  not  knowing  what  she  said. 

Dr.  Avery  was  an  old  man,  and  though  he  said  after- 
ward that  no  human  words  had  ever  struck  the  sudden 
trembling  over  him  which  that  speech  of  Hardy  Shum- 
way's  did,  he  took  the  amazement  and  horror  more 
quietly  than  the  others.  In  a  few  moments,  too,  he  had 
seen  through  the  whole.  The  circumstances  fitted  into 


THE    MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  319 

one  another,  —  the  whole  dreadful  mystery  and  madness 
lay  bare  to  him.  He  knew,  too,  that  this  day's  work 
measured  the  remorse  and  agony  which  Hardy  Shumway 
had  borne  for  that's  night's  crime. 

"My  poor  fellow  !  "  a  voice  husky  with  pity  spoke 
the  words  close  in  his  ear,  and  at  that  sound  Hardy 
Shumway  took  down  his  hands  and  looked  in  the  doc- 
tor's face.  He  must  have  seen  the  shock  there  with 
which  the  old  physician  had  listened  to  the  confession, 
but  the  deep  gray  eyes  were  full  of  an  unutterable 
sorrow  and  pity.  And  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  and  Mar- 
jorie  Carruthers  stood  at  the  window,  and  the  winds 
shook  softly  among  the  leaves,  and  overhead  shone  the 
stars  of  God,  and  waited  to  see  what  the  two  would  do. 
It  never  entered  into  the  heart  of  the  man  and  woman  to 
doubt  one  word  of  what  Hardy  Shumway  had  said. 

They  turned  and  looked  at  each  other,  and,  for  a 
moment,  with  the  life  sound  in  every  limb  which  the 
man  lying  there  on  the  bed  had  yielded  up  his  own  to 
spare,  Marjorie  Carruthers  forgot  her  debt,  —  forgot 
everything  but  the  death  which  Hardy  Shumway  had 
come  so  near  dealing  the  man  of  her  love,  and  a  hot 
hatred  swelled  through  her. 

Dr.  Avery  came  over  to  the  two.  "  Come  back  and 
tell  the  man  you  forgive  him,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't,  —  oh,  I  can't  do  that !  "  Marjorie  cried  out, 
with  a  quick  loathing  and  horror  in  her  voice. 

The  physician  turned  to  the  young  man.  "  He  tried 
to  take  your  life,  but  he  saved  hers,"  he  said,  simply. 

Benjamin    Whitmarsh     lifted    himself    up ;    without 


320  'HIE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

another  word  he  took  hold  of  Marjorie's  arm  and  led  her 
straight  over  to  the  bed  where  Hardy  Shumway  lay. 

"  You  have  saved  the  dearer  life,"  he  said.  "  You 
have  made  atonement.  From  my  heart,  Hardy  Shum- 
way,  I  forgive  you  !  " 

If  you  could  have  seen  then  the  look  which  came  into 
the  dying  man's  face,  t —  if  you  could  have  seen  it ! 

"  I  shall  not  be  afraid  to  go  to  God  now.  He  knows, 
—  he  knows  !  "  he  said;  and  after  that  he  did  not  speak 
for  a  little  while,  and  they  half  fancied  he  had  gone  out 
with  those  words  on  his  white,  stiffening  lips. 

Miss  Carruthers  plucked  at  the  doctor's  arm.  "I 
didn't  forgive  him,  and  now  he  will  never  know,"  she 
whispered. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Hardy  Shum- 
way,  rousing  himself  a  moment  after,  his  voice  clear  and 
steady. 

Marjorie  pressed  up  to  him.  She  placed  her  soft  fingers 
in  Hardy  Shum way's.  "It  is  the  very  hand  which  you 
wrenched  out  of  Death's  grasp  to-day.  I,  too,  forgive 
you,"  she  sobbed. 

And  then  Hardy  Shumway's  other  hand  groped  for 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh's,  and  laid  Marjorie's  there,  and 
they  knew  that  he  meant  it  was  his  gift,  and  they  remem- 
bered the  price  he  had  paid  for  it;  and  life  had  been 
sweet  to  the  young  workman;  and  there,  too,  was  his 
little  sister  in  the  other  room  ! 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  the  story,  as  the  man  lying 
there  forced  himself  to  tell  it,  with  the  two  men  and  the 
woman  listening,  and  that  Other,  also,  whose  face  none 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  321 

of  them  saw,  but  who  comes,  sooner  or  later,  to  all  bed- 
sides to  catch  the  last,  faint,  groping  words  that  are  spoken 
there,  —  the  face  that  all  through  life  we  shrink  from 
with  a  nameless  dread  and  terror,  and  that  yet,  at  the 
last,  may  wear  for  each  one  of  us  a  kindly  welcoming  face, 
"  the  fear  of  Death  being  taken  away." 

I  think  no  pen  wielded  by  human  fingers  could  tell  his 
story  as  Hardy  Shumway  told  it  that  night,  — could 
give  it  the  simple,  eloquent  passion  of  his  own  words,  — 
could  bring  it  all,  vivid  and  real,  home  to  your  souls,  as 
he  brought  the  whole  home  to  the  souls  of  his  hearers. 

He  lived  it  all  over  himself  in  that  dying  hour,  —  the 
slow,  long  misery  of  the  last  winter,  the  cold,  the  hunger, 
the  wearying,  fruitless  search  for  work,  until,  at  last, 
brain  and  heart  grew  dull  and  hard  with  the  hopeless 
struggle,  settling  down  for  the  most  part  into  a  cold  apa- 
thy of  despair,  except  when  the  sight  of  Berry's  little 
peaked  face  drove  the  man  half  mad  with  pity  and  mis- 
ery. 

The  girl,  however,  always  stoutly  insisted  that  she  was 
not  hungry  ;  and  her  brother  tried  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the 
facts  and  believe  her.  Then  she  had  her  own  ways  of 
cheating  him.  —  saving  what  food  there  was  for  her  big 
brother,  and  going  off  to  the  Mills  many  a  cold  winter's 
morning,  with  hardly  a  morsel  to  break  her  fast,  scraping 
together  all  the  scant  food  the  larder  afforded  for  Hardy's 
lunch,  and  leaving  it  there,  like  the  brave  little  heroine 
she  was,  telling  him  she  had  put  up  her  share,  fancying 
to  herself  that  a  big  fellow  like  Hardy  could  not  go  half 


322  THE   MILLS    OP  TUXBURY. 

starved,  so  easily  as  a  little  thin,  wiry  scrap  of  flesh  and 
blood  like  herself. 

One  day,  lounging  down  among  the  shops  of  the  Set- 
tlement, listless  and  wretched,  Hardy  came  upon  an  old 
acquaintance,  a  man  a  good  many  years  his  senior.  — 
Dick  Blatchley  by  name.  They  had  toiled  together  in 
the  copper  mines  of  Cornwall  long  ago.  when  Hardy  was 
a  boy.  He  had  never  liked  the  man,  but  in  his  present 
mood  of  sullen  despair  or  frenzied  misery  any  kind  of 
company  was  a  certain  relief,  and  Hardy  Shumway  was 
not  likely  to  be  fastidious  just  then  about  his  society. 
Blatchley  was  a  large,  raw-boned,  big-jointed  fellow ;  a 
coarse,  lank  face,  fringed  with  thin,  yellowish  beard,  and 
at  times  a  cunning  leer  in  his  eye,  which  Hardy  remem- 
bered in  the  old  days  when  he  used  to  listen  to  the  fel- 
low's jokes  going  up  and  down  the  shafts  together  in  the 
old  mines  at  Cornwall. 

The  man  had  his  jokes  now,  and  they,  at  least,  took 
Hardy's  thoughts  for  a  little  while  out  of  his  own  wretch- 
edness ;  and  then  Blatchley  had  seen  a  great  deal  during 
these  years,  which  had  given  Hardy  Shumway  a  home 
in  the  New  World  and  made  a  man  of  him. 

The  other  had  left  mining  and  followed  the  seas,  —  al- 
ways as  a  deck  hand.  It  was  wonderful,  if  one  could 
credit  Blatchley 's  stories,  how  often  luck  had  crossed  the 
path  of  this  man  and  just  missed  him.  Hardy  could  not 
fail  to  perceive  that  the  other's  seafaring  life  had  hardened 
and  coarsened  him  a  good  deal.  His  sneering,  boastful 
talk  was  checkered  with  oaths,  and  he  smoked  vile  tobac- 
co and  drank  wretched  whiskey. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  323 

He  was  out  of  employment,  and  in  the  miserable  health 
which  is  the  result  of  an  irregular  life  and  dissipated  hab- 
its. 

It  was  evident  enough  that,  whatever  money  the  man 
had  made,  he  had  squandered  it  recklessly,  and  he  had 
drifted  up  from  some  not  very  remote  seaport  to  Tuxbury, 
to  see  if  any  chance  opened  for  him  among  the  mines, 
although  his  reckless,  wandering  habits  would  have  ren- 
dered it  quite  impossible  for  Blatchley  to  settle  down  into 
industry  and  honesty.  No  employment  offered  itself  to 
him  any  more  than  it  did  to  young  Shumway  that  win- 
ter. 

But  chance  seemed  to  throw  the  two  men  frequently 
together,  and  Hardy  grew  used  to  the  vulgar  stories  and 
the  coarse  jests,  interlarded  with  oaths,  and  the  whole  talk 
of  his  companion,  which  left  a  bad  odor  in  one's  thoughts. 

Idleness  and  poverty  were  doing  bad  work  on  Hardy 
Shumway,  as  they  do  on  all  human  souls. 

Blatchley  had  no  faith  in  God  or  man,  —  only  in  luck 
and  the  devil.  He  used  to  say,  with  one  of  his  loud 
guffaws,  that  these  two  were  his  masters,  and  that  the 
difference  betwixt  him  and  most  other  men  was.  that  he 
was  honest  enough  to  own  up  to  facts  —  with  a  great  deal 
more  talk  of  that  sort. 

Hardy  Shumway  always  left  his  old  mining  comrade 
a  little  worse  man  than  he  met  him,  —  in  a  little  harder 
mood  toward  God  and  the  world  in  general.  Little  Berry 
had  no  suspicion  how  many  of  her  brother's  harsh  speeches 
and  sullen  hours  were  owing  to  this  man,  from  whom  she 


.  324  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 

shrank,  at  the  beginning,  as  from  something  vile  and 
loathsome. 

The  sailor,  too,  was  primed  with  stories  of  men  who 
by  a  single  dash  at  luck  had  cleared  a  fortune,  —  some- 
times by  gambling,  sometimes  by  successful  housebreak- 
ing  or  highway  robbery.  He  never  used  just  those  ugly 
words  ;  he  always  glossed  over  the  deeds  with  something 
that  disguised  or  palliated  their  monstrous  features. 

Hardy  Shumway  had,  at  bottom,  a  sturdy  sense  of 
honesty,  which  recoiled  from  this  talk  at  first ;  but  at  last 
he  grew  used  to  it.  Of  course  he  would  never  soil  his 
fingers  with  any  such  business,  but,  after  all,  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  Blatchley  said  :  "  Every 
man  has  to  look  out  for  his  own  cup  of  porridge  in  this 
world."  So  the  talk  worked  in  the  mill-hand's  brain  ; 
in  his  heart  also  ;  both  being  worse  for  the  new  ideas 
Blatchley  had  insinuated  there.  One  night  something 
else  worked  in  Hardy's  Shumway's  heart,  —  something 
fierce  and  cruel  as  fire,  cold  and  hard  as  ice. 

It  was  that  awful  night  on  which  he  had  lain  awake 
and  tossed  through  on  a  bed  that  was  like  a  rack  to  him ; 
thinking  of  Berry  in  the  next  room,  and  of  the  words 
wrung  out  of  her  pain  as  she  went  upstairs  :  — 

"I'm  so  hungry  I  can't  sleep.  If  there  was  only  one 
good  slice  of  bread  in  this  house  !  " 

Those  words  maddened  him.  They  let  in  a  sudden 
light  upon  the  poor  child's  contrivances  and  shifts  for  the 
last  weeks.  He  saw  how  she  had  been  stinting  and 
starving  herself  in  order  that  he  should  have,  at  least, 
part  of  a  meal. 


THE   MILLS    OF    TUXBURY.  325 

In  the  darkness  there  the  poor  fellow  set  his  grim  jaws 
and  gnashed  his  teeth  impotently ;  yet,  with  all  his 
brawny  strength,  he  could  not  earn  a  loaf  of  bread  to  save 
his  sister  from  starvation. 

Hardy  Shumway's  brain  was  riot  a  particularly  shrewd 
one,  but  it  could  at  least  take  in  that  one  fact  in  all  its 
bearings. 

In  his  desperation  it  seemed  to  the  young  workman 
that  God  and  man  had  turned  his  foes  ;  he  lay  there  and 
fought  through  the  long  hours  of  that  wretched  night,  and 
thought  of  Berry,  —  poor  little  Berry,  —  in  the  next 
room,  going  supperless  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  it  is  true,  matters  brightened  a  little, 
for  Hardy,  driven  to  desperation,  set  off  early  for  the 
grocer's,  and  the  man,  moved  by  his  appeal,  trusted  him 
to  whatever  he  asked,  and  Berry  set  out  for  the  Mills 
with  such  a  breakfast  as  she  had  not  tasted  for  weeks. 
But  that  was  only  a  temporary  make-shift.  There  were 
other  mornings  to  come,  and  other  breakfasts  would  be 
needed  for  them,  as  Hardy  well  knew. 

That  day  Hardy  wandered  a  long  distance  from  the 
Settlement,  in  a  desperate  quest  of  work. 

Returning  home,  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  one  of  the 
lonely  country  roads,  he  came  upon  Dick  Blatchley. 
The  latter  had  complained  of  illness  for  several  days, 
hardly  dragging  himself  a  few  doors  from  his  lodgings. 
He  was  so  disguised  now  by  an  old  white  coat  and  muffler, 
in  which  his  jaws  were  concealed,  that  Hardy  would  not 
have  recognized  the  sailor  had  not  the  man  accosted  him. 

Blatchley  had,  of  course,  before  this,  Hardy's  version 


326  THE  MILLS   OP  TUXBURT. 

of  his  being  turned  out  of  the  Mills,  and  his  comments 
on  the  outrage  of  the  whole  proceeding  were  of  a  nature 
precisely  calculated  to  inflame  the  workman's  sore  feelings 
on  that  subject. 

I  am  telling  this  story,  not  in  Hardy  Shumway's  words, 
as  you  can  see,  but  in  my  own,  seeking  to  dwell  as  briefly 
as  possible  on  the  misery  and  crime.  I  do  not  seek, 
either,  to  excuse  Hardy  Shumway.  I  certainly  do  not 
ask  you  to  do  it.  I  only  want  you  should  put  yourself 
right  in  his  place  at  that  time,  —  the  cold,  the  hunger, 
the  fits  of  sullen  despair,  the  frenzies  of  desperation ; 
and  the  little  sister  at  home,  the  only  thing  he  loved  on 
earth,  and  her  sharp,  smothered  cry  of  last  night  ringing 
in  his  ears,  —  I  want  you  should  put  yourself  in  his 
place,  and  then  judge  him. 

Blatchley  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  long  tramps  about 
the  country.  He  had  had  one  that  day,  setting  out  for 
a  town  eight  miles  from  Tuxbury,  after  reaching  which 
he  prowled  around  the  bank  with  no  especial  purpose  in 
view;  only  the  man  had  a  great  hankering  for  a  "wind- 
fall," as  he  called  it,  at  this  time.  He  was  out  of  employ- 
ment and  of  money,  and  Coyle  had  that  very  morning 
been  dunning  him  for  his  board. 

Wandering  up  the  small,  narrow  alley  upon  which  the 
bank  door  opened,  Blatchley  had  remarked  to  himself 
what  an  old,  shackling  concern  the  whole  building  was, 
"  and  that  it  could  not  be  so  hard  a  matter  for  a  cool, 
plucky  fellow  to  break  his  way  inside  and  get  hold  of  a 
good  slice  of  the.  pile  shut  up  in  the  vault  there.  He 
wouldn't  mind  a  chance  at  a  haul  himself." 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  327 

With  these  thoughts  for  company,  the  man  came  sud- 
denly upon  the  back  door  opening  into  the  dark  entry,  — 
the  door  which  happened  to  stand  ajar  on  this  particular 
morning. 

Blatchley  peered  inside,  heard  a  hum  of  voices  there, 
and  slipped  his  tall,  gaunt  figure  into  the  entry,  and  no 
word,  for  the  next  half  hour,  spoken  in  the  adjoining  room, 
betAveen  the  bank  president  and  his  guest,  escaped  the 
man  listening  concealed  in  the  darkness. 

At  last  he  slipped  out,  surreptitiously  as  he  had  entered, 
only  this  time  the  guest  had  gone,  and  a  stealthy,  scrap- 
ing sound  did  reach  the  president's  ear.  He  rose  up, 
half  consciously,  went  to  the  door,  and,  before  closing  it, 
looked  up  and  down  the  alley.  He  saw  nothing.  Blatch- 
ley took  good  care  of  that,  concealing  himself  for  a  while 
in  an  angle  of  the  opposite  wall. 

But  during  that  half  hour  in  the  bank  entry,  the  griz- 
zled sailor  had  learned  something  which  he  regarded  as 
of  vital  importance  to  himself.  Tramping  home  along 
the  low,  silent  country  roads,  thick  with  mire,  this  man 
laid  some  plans  for  the  night,  which,  to  carry  out  success- 
fully, rendered  the  assistance  of  a  second  person  indis- 
pensable. 

Blatchley  was  turning  over  one  and  another  of  his 
cronies  in  his  mind,  not  satisfied  that  any  one  possessed 
just  the  qualifications  requisite  for  the  work  in  hand, 
when  he  came  suddenly  upon  Hardy  Shumway,  in  one  of 
the  by-roads  that  led  across  the  marshes  to  the  turnpike. 

With  the  first  salutation  the  older  man  saw  that  the 


328  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY. 

younger  was  in  desperate  trouble.  A  little  adroit  ques- 
tioning soon  drew  the  principal  facts  out  of  Shumway. 

The  sailor  began  to  question  with  himself  whether  he 
had  not  struck  upon  the  right  man.  This  sullen,  desperate 
mood  was  the  only  one,  he  well  knew,  which  would  make 
Hardy  Shumway  ripe  for  such  work  as  Blatchley  had 
laid  out. 

You  may  be  certain  that  the  grizzled  villain  played  his 
game  with  the  younger  adroitly ;  treating  the  whole 
affair  first  as  a  jest,  and  then  changing  its  complexion 
into  a  solemn  mystery ;  and  at  last,  when  he  felt  that 
he  had  worked  sufficiently  upon  young  ShumwayVcuri- 
osity  and  greed,  the  two  men  went  into  the  woods  together, 
and  there  Blatchley's  whole  diabolical  plot  came  out  and 
showed  its  true  features.  Whatever  Hardy  Shumway's 
faults  were,  there  had  been  all  the  habits  and  instincts, 
all  the  old,  clean  teachings  woven  into  his  boyhood  in  the  old 
English  home  among  the  miners,  that  rose  up  and  made  him 
recoil  with  horrorand  loathing  from  Blatchley's  proposition. 

"I  can't  do  it,  Blatchley,  — my  hands  are  clean;  " 
staring  at  them  as  they  lay  on  his  knees  red  and  cold, 
while  the  two  men  sat  under  the  bare  trees  which  shel- 
tered them  from  the  sour,  rasping  wind  of  the  winter 
day.  "  I  can't  turn  highway  robber !  I  can  starve  first, 
I  and  little  Berry." 

Blatchley  was  used  to  dealing  with  men  comparatively 
innocent  in  crime.  "It  may  seem  honest  to  you," 
sneered  the  wily  old  villain,  "  to  let  a  pretty  little  help- 
less craft  like  that  sister  o'  yourn  go  to  wreck  for  want 
of  a  little  food  ;  but,  sir.  if  she  belonged  to  me.  and  there 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY.  329 

was  any  way  o'  getting  her  a  good  meal,  by  fair  means  or 
foul,  I  should  think  I  deserved  a  halter  if  I  didn't  get  it. 
I  tell  you  what,  Shumway,  when  you've  lived  to  be  as 
old  a  man  as  I  have,  you'll  find  out  there's  a  mighty  deal 
of  cant  and  gammon  about  honesty  in  the  world.  When 
you  come  to  talk  o'  that,  though,  I  think  the  young  fellow 
that's  comin'  up  the  road  to-night  with  his  pockets 
crammed  full  o'  money  is  the  real  robber.  What  right 
have  you  to  be  turned  out  o'  your  place,  I'd  like  to  know, 
and  the  bread  taken  from  your  sister's  mouth?  " 

There  was  a  great  deal  more  talk  of  this  sort,  —  talk 
that  you  may  be  sure,  in  his  half-sullen,  half-frenzied 
mood,  had  its  effect  on  young  Shumway.  There  was  a 
long,  hard  struggle  for  hours,  though,  —  such  a  one  that 
Blatchley  began  more  than  once  to  doubt  whether  he  had 
not  lost  precious  time  and  made  a  mistake  in  the  selection 
of  his  man  ;  but  he  had  another  abettor  in  the  shape  of 
a  bottle  of  bad  whiskey ;  he  primed  Hardy  with  this  as 
he  did  with  his  specious  arguments,  backed  with  sneers 
and  entreaties ;  and  at  last,  his  brain  on  fire  with  drink, 
as  his  heart  was  with  wrong  and  suffering,  just  as  the 
sun  went  down,  Hardy  Shumway  put  his  hand  in  Dick 
Blatchley's  and  swore  that  he  would  be  his  man. 

Two  hours  later  the  men  waited  below  in  the  hollow 
for  the  clattering  of  young  Whitmarsh's  horse  up  the  road. 
It  came  at  last,  and  these  two  were  ready  for  it.  Blutch- 
ley  had  a  pistol  with  him,  but  he  had  sworn  to  Hardy 
Shumway  not  to  use  it,  —  that  there  would  be  no  need 
of  it. 

It  was  the  money,  not  murder,  they  were  bent  on. 


330  THE   MILLS   OF   TUXHVRY. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  this  talk,  the  elder  robber,  who 
was  far  cooler  than  the  younger,  had  a  sort  of  prescience 
that  the  man  he  was  to  deal  with  would  not  be  likely  to 
submit  to  highway  robbery  without  a  struggle. 

•:  It  was  best  to  be  prepared  for  all  hazards,"  making 
sure  meanwhile  that  his  pistol  was  well  loaded,  and 
priming  Hardy  Shumway  with  the  vile  stuff  which  fired 
his  blood  and  fuddled  his  brain. 

What  followed  you  know.  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  was 
a  brave  fellow,  and,  when  his  blood  was  up,  a  rash  one. 
It  was  Shumway  who  assured  him  that  they  did  not 
want  his  life, —  only  his  money.  In  the  scuffle  that 
followed,  Shumway,  too,  got  hold  of  the  pistol.  He  did 
not  intend  to  fire  it,  only  to  frighten  young  Whitmarsh  ; 
but  Blatchley  had  loaded  it,  and  it  went  off. 

The  sailor  searched  the  pockets,  and  found  they  had 
taken  all  this  pains  for  a  few  dollars.  He  had  to  drag 
Hardy  away  at  last,  for  the  latter  was  stupefied  with 
horror  over  his  crime,  and  would  have  remained  a  cower- 
ing heap  by  the  man  whom  they  left,  as  they  supposed, 
lying  dead  by  the  roadside. 

Blatchley  took  his  companion  home  to  Coyle's,  and 
kept  him  there  all  night,  taking  care  that  the  people  in 
the  house  should  not  know  this,  and  they  fancied  that 
their  lodger  had  been  ill  in  his  room  most  of  the  day. 

The  next  morning,  however,  the  men  learned  how 
young  Whitmarsh  had  been  discovered  by  the  roadside 
and  carried  home  for  dead,  and  what  happened  after- 
ward. 

After  that  Blatchley  ventured  to  trust  Shumway  out 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  331 

of  his  sight,  which  he  had  not  dared  to  do  before,  lest  the 
young  man  in  his  wild  remorse  should  reveal  the  whole 
dreadful  crime. 

The  sailor  had  promised  to  "go  halves"  with  his 
companion  in  guilt ;  but  Blatchley  seized  the  lion's  share 
for  himself.  Hardy,  indeed,  never  so  much  as  inquired 
the  amount  taken  from  the  rifled  pockets. 

He  would  not  have  touched  the  money  had  not  Blatch- 
ley  thrust  some  pittance  into  his  hand,  and  told  him  to 
get  a  breakfast  for  that  "little  pinched,  shivering  thing 
at  home." 

But  no  mouthful  of  that  ill-gotten  food  ever  crossed  the 
lips  of  Hardy  Shumway.  He  would  have  starved  first. 

Hardy  Shumway  told  his  story  that  night  in  fewer  words 
than  I  have  done ;  but  the  two  men  and  the  woman  listen- 
ing there,  with  the  winds  scraping  at  the  windows  and  the 
stars  shining  overhead,  learned  the  whole. 

At  the  last  his  voice  wavered  and  sank  fitfully,  and 
his  face  grew  sharper  in  its  ashen  pallor. 

And  you  may  be  certain  that  poverty  that  night 
seemed  something  real  and  awful  to  Benjamin  Whit- 
marsh  and  Marjorie  Carruthers,  that  it  had  never 
seemed  in  all  their  lives  before. 


332  THE  MILLS. OF  TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ALL  this  time  Dr.  A  very  had  his  fingers  on  the  man' a 
pulse.  The  old  physician  had  listened  in  just  this  way 
to  many  death-bed  revelations,  —  the  sad,  closing  chap- 
ters of  human  lives  which  had  in  any  wise  sense  proved 
themselves  failures,  miscarried  from  infirmity  of  purpose 
or  lack  of  moral  balance,  or,  worse  than  this,  slimed  with 
foulness  and  evil,  come  down  to  the  last  hour's  wreck 
and  remorse ;  souls  over  which  the  old  man's  heart 
breathed  a  final  prayer  as  he  gave  them  back  with  their 
weight  of  wasted  years  to  the  dear  God,  who  he  hoped 
would  deal  more  mercifully  with  them  than  any  human 
love  or  wisdom  could. 

But  no  husky,  stammering  voice  had  ever  poured  out 
of  stiffening  lips  a  story  which  shook  the  old  doctor  to 
the  centre  as  did  this  one  of  Hardy  Shumway's. 

No  need  that  the  man  should  dwell  on  his  remorse ; 
that  was  witnessed  by  one  desperate  leap  into  the  jaws 
of  Death,  by  the  crushed  limbs  lying  there  on  the  bed 
never  to  rise  again,  by  the  life  going  out  suddenly  in  its 
lusty,  young  manhood ;  and  again  the  doctor  thought, 
"Life  was  sweet  to  the  young  workman,  and  there  was 
his  little  sister  who  loved  him  so  dearly,  and  was  ignorant 
of  all,  in  the  other  room  !  " 

Benjamin  Whitmarsh  and   Marjorie  Carruthers   had 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT.  333 

their  thoughts  too.  Standing  there  with  his  arm  around 
the  woman  of  his  love  to  steady  her,  shaking  and  shivering 
with  horror  at  the  awful  story  she  had  just  learned, 
young  Whitmarsh  could  not  help  putting  himself  in  the 
workman's  place,  with  the  bitter  cold  and  the  gnawing 
hunger,  and  the  dear  face  of  Marjorie  before  him  grow- 
ing paler  and  sharper  every  day,  precisely  as  Berry's 
had  grown. 

The  workman  paused  a  few  moments,  excited  and 
breathless,  living  over  all  those  dreadful  scenes,  but  his 
voice  soon  trembled  out  eagerly  into  the  silence:  "I 
should  never  have  done  it,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Berry. 
She  was  all  I  had  in  the  world,  you  see,  and  it  seemed 
to  drive  me  mad  that  night,  when  I  heard  her  going  to 
bed  moanin'  for  a  little  piece  o'  bread." 

A  wild  burst  of  sobbing  from  Miss  Carruthers  followed 
this  remark.  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  leaned  again  over  the 
dying  man,  and  his  will  had  again  and  again  the  task  of 
mastering  his  failing  voice  as  he  said,  "  My  poor  fellow,  if 
the  woman  whom  I  love  better  than  my  life,  had  stood  in 
Berry's  place,  and  I  in  yours  —  I  cannot  tell  —  God  only 
knows  —  I,  too,  might  have  been  driven  mad,  and  done 
what  you  did!  " 

Young  Shumway  made  no  answer,  but  a  look  came 
into  his  eyes.  Ask  Benjamin  Whitmarsh  if  he  will  for- 
get that  look  to  his  dying  day  ! 

Shumway's  brain  wandered  a  little  after  that,  for  he 
began  to  talk  of  the  Mills  and  Berry.  The  doctor 
touched  the  arm  of  young  Whitmarsh.  "It  won't  last 


334  TBE  MILLS    OP   TUXBUR7. 

long,"  he  whispered.  "You  had  better  send  for  the 
child." 

All  this  time  she  had  been  waiting  in  the  next  room, 
fluttered  and  bewildered.  Poor  Berry  !  She  had  never 
found  herself  of  so  much  consequence  before  in  her  life  ; 
but  it  mattered  very  little  to  her  at  that  time.  She  knew 
that  everybody  spoke  gently,  and  looked  at  her  with 
kind,  sorrowful  looks,  urging  her  to  take  so  me  food; 
which  she  tried  very  hard  to  do,  but  she  could  only 
swallow  the  first  mouthful. 

When  some  sudden  earthquake  of  grief  shakes  the 
solid  ground  under  our  feet,  our  thoughts,  shocked  and 
confused,  unable  oftentimes  to  take  in  the  whole  magni- 
tude of  the  evil,  drift  about  helplessly  among  trivial 
scenes  and  things. 

So  did  Berry's,  sitting  there  by  the  window  and  wait- 
ing for  them  to  call  her  back  to  Hardy's  bedside.  Over- 
head were  the  still,  bright,  solemn  stars, —  the  stars  that 
were  shining  down  on  the  little  home  only  three  miles 
away,  but  which  seemed  so  very  far  off  now,  just  as  the 
morning  did  when  she  had  fastened  the  flower  in  Hardy's 
button-hole,  and  stood  in  the  door  with  the  sunlight  shin- 
ing in  her  eyes,  as  she  watched  him  going  up  the  street. 
Through  all  these  thoughts  and  memories,  groping  and 
clinging  among  the  old  habits  and  the  old  scenes, 
was  a  vague  wonder  whether  to-morrow  would  not 
come  back  and  find  everything  just  as  it  was 
before,  —  whether  Berry  would  not  open  her  eyes 
and  see  the  red  sunrise  shining  in  through  the 
Binall  window-panes,  and  spring  up  in  a  hurry,  re- 


THE  MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  335 

membering  there  was  Hardy's  breakfast  to  get  ready 
before  he  set  off  for  the  Mill. 

Had  all  that  old  life  drifted  suddenly  away  from  her, 
as  tides  drift  away  off  from  the  shore,  and  left  her 
nothing  but  a  vague  future,  all  darkness  and  chaos,  which 
her  thoughts  shuddered  and  drew  back  from  with  terror  ? 

So  Berry  sat.  with  her  small,  peaked  face  by  the  win- 
dow, her  thoughts  busy  and  frightened  within  her,  her 
tears  dripping  on  her  hands,  silent  and  cold  on  her  lap 
now, —  those  warm,  restless  little  hands  so  deft  of  touch, 
so  swift  for  work  and  help :  they  had  come  to  a  stand- 
still at  last,  like  her  life, —  her  ears  strained  for  a  call  in 
the  next  room,  which  seemed  so  very  long  in  coming  to 
the  wondering,  impatient  little  listener:  She  was  half 
jealous  of  the  people  inside  there.  Nobody  had  as 
good  right  as  she  by  Hardy's  side  at  this  time. 

Ah.  if  *he  had  known  what  had  been  going  on  inside 
that  room  during  the  last  hour  ! 

But  at  length  young  Whitmarsh  came  out.  "  Come, 
Berry,"  he  said,  and  she  sprang  up  without  a  word  and 
went  back  to  her  brother's  bedside.  She  put  her  cheek, 
her  warm  little  cheek,  down  to  his  cold  one.  "  You 
know  who  it  is,  Hardy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it's  you,  Berry,"  and  a  smile  came  up 
slowly  into  his  eyes,  —  a  tender,  loving  smile,  —  but 
already  the  light  was  waning  in  them. 

"  And  —  and  —  you  feel  better  now,  don't  you,  Har- 
dy?" 

He  made  a  great  effort,  girding  up  his  soul  for  the  last 
words,  which  he  knew  she  would  carry  through  all  her 


336  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY. 

life  to  come  :  "  You  mustn't  take  it  hard,  Berry,  what's 
comin'.  You've  been  a  good  little  sister  al'ays  ;  I  might 
have  been  a  better  brother  sometimes  —  " 

"No.  you  couldn't. — you  couldn't  either,"  she 
sobbed  out  passionately. 

"Well,  never  mind  now.  We've  al'ays  loved  each 
other.  Poor  little  Berry  !  —  you'll  remember  what  I 
say  now  about  not  feelin'  bad  ?  " 

She  knew  what  he  meant  now,  —  knew  it  in  the  spasm 
of  agony  which  doubled  her  up  like  a  dreadful  blow. 

"  0  Hardy,  say  anything  but  that.  I  can't  let  you 
go,  —  oh,  I  can't !  "  she  cried  out,  as  human  love  does  cry 
when  it  stands  face  to  face  with  Death. 

His  dying  eyes  strained  at  her  again  :  a  spasm  of  pain 
convulsed  the  stiffening  features:  "It's  hard  on  you,  I 
know,  Berry, — poor,  lovin',  kind  little  Berry!  But 
you'll  be  a  good  girl  and  have  better  times  than  you  ever 
had  before." 

"  They  won't,  they  won't  be  good  times  without  you, 
Hardy,"  she  sobbed  out  again  with  a  kind  of  passion  of 
love. 

"  It'll  seem  hardest  at  first.  But,  Berry,  there's  a 
good  God,  and  he  knows,  and  I'm  not  afraid  to  go  to  him. 
You'll  remember,  sir,  what  I  said  about  her?  "  his  eyes 
turning  suddenly  in  search  of  young  Whitmarsh. 

"  As  I  hope  for  God's  mercy  when  I  lie  where  you  do, 
Shumway,"  the  other  answered. 

A  last  smile  upon  the  white  lips. 

"  Kiss  me,  Berry,  good-night,"  he  said,  his  voice  drag- 
ging fainter  and  slower  in  his  throat. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  337 

She  put  her  wet  face  down  to  his,  her  warm  lips  to  his 
stiffening  ones,  until  at  last  the  doctor's  hand  drew  her 
away.  "  Come,  my  child,"  he  said.  He  knew  that 
Hardy  Shumway  would  never  speak  to  his  sister  again. 

Then  it  came  upon  her  suddenly,  with  all  its  awful 
meaning,  that  Hardy  was  gone,  —  that  in  all  the  wide 
world  he  would  never  speak  to  her  again,  she  would  never 
see  his  face,  — never  listen  for  his  coming  home  at  night. 

You  know  what  such  moments  are,  for  in  our  great 
griefs  we  are  all  of  one  kin ;  you  know  that  dreadful 
wrench  of  some  hour  in  your  life,  when  there  was  nothing 
left  to  you  in  the  widje  world  but  the  face  of  your  dead 
and  the  awful  aching  of  your  heart. 

Poor  Berry  !  but  out  of  the  memory  of  your  own  sor- 
sow  you  can  best  interpret  the  child's  first  agony  ! 

Dr.  Avery  bore  her  out  of  the  room  in  his  arms,  laid 
her  upon  the  bed,  and  gave  her  a  soothing  draught,  and 
did  not  leave  her  until  she  had  fallen  asleep.  Then  he 
returned  to  the  dying  man  and  took  his  place  among  the 
watchers,  the  Whitmarshes,  and  Miss  Carruthers,  who 
could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  return  to  her  chamber. 

Overhead  there  was  the  thick  shining  of  the  stars,  and 
beneath  them,  the  moaning  of  the  winds  among  the  shrub- 
beries ;  and  somewhere  about  midnight,  so  softly  that 
those  about  him  could  not  tell  the  moment,  without  sign 
or  token,  the  human  life  of  Hardy  Shumway,  with  all  its 
burden  of  faults  and  mistakes,  of  failures  and  sins,  lapsed 
into  the  eternal. 

"  God  be  merciful  to  us  sinners!"  said  Dr.   Avery, 


338  THE   MILLS    3F   TUXJlUItY. 

closing  the  eyes  of  the  poor  workman,  who,  in  all  his 
life,  had  never  lain  in  such  state  as  he  did  in  his  death. 

After  a  brief  consultation,  Dr.  Avery  and  Benjamin 
Whitinarsh  had  both  arrived  at  the  same  conclusion. 
There  was  no  necessity  now  for  discovering  to  the  world 
the  crime  of  Hardy  Shumway ;  no  ends  of  justice  to  be 
attained  by  making  his  confession  public.  And  then 
there  was  Berry,  and  the  promise  they  had  given  that  her 
brother's  memory  should  always-  be  clean  in  the  poor 
child's  thoughts.  This  was  easier,  because  the  chief  ac- 
complice in  the  crime  was  lying  now  in  the  stillness  of 
southern  seas,  where  the  storm  hurled  him  down  one 
night  with  his  guilt  on  his  head. 

It  seemed  as  though  poor  Hardy's  words  had  come 
true  of  Blatchley:  "There's  judgments!  there's  judg- 
ments !  " 

Amidst  all  the  strong  emotion  which  young  Shumway's 
confession  could  not  fail  to  arouse  in  the  soul  of  young 
Whitmarsh,  the  latter  kept  recalling  the  Duke's  words 
to  the  Provost  in  "  Measure  for  Measure  "  :  "  All  difficul- 
ties are  easy  when  they  are  known." 

It  seemed  hardly  credible,  when  you  came  to  think  of 
it,  that  for  weeks  the  most  skilful  detectives  in  the  coun- 
try —  men  whose  power  for  hunting  out  a  criminal 
amounted  to  genius  —  had  been  on  the  watch  at  Tux- 
bury  without  finding  the  smallest  clue  to  the  assassins, 
when  the  chief  pne,  a  stranger  too,  had  come  and  gone 
unsuspected  in  their  midst.  It  was  not  so  singular  that 
no  suspicion  had  attached  to  Hardy  Shumway.  He  bore 
a  character  for  honesty  among  the  workmen.  His  crime 


THE   MILLS    OF  TUXRURY.  339 

His  crime  was  an  exceptional  deed  in  his  life,  and  there 
could  be  no  doubt  that  idleness,  poverty,  and  suffering 
had  well-nigh  crazed  the  young  workman's  brain,  and 
made  him  the  easy  tool  of  a  hardened  villain. 

It  was  singular  enough,  too,  that  when  the  detectives 
failed,  the  suspicions  of  the  Tuxbury  people  had  not 
naturally  been  drawn  toward  the  old  sailor,  who  came 
among  them  a  stranger  without  character  or  credentials 
of  any  sort. 

During  those  days  which  followed  the  robbery,  Blatch- 
ley  must  have  borne  his  share  in  the  talk  and  excitement 
which  ran  so  high  through  the  town ;  and  the  old  ruffian, 
no  doubt,  simulated  well  the  excitement  and  wrath  which 
he  must  have  found  on  every  tongue  and  read  in  every 
face. 

It  is  true,  young  Whitmarsh  did  not  know,  at  this  time, 
what  he  afterward  learned  from  Dr.  Avery,  who  skilfully 
cross-questioned  the  Coyles  regarding  their  former  lodger, 
that  it  had  suited  Blatchley  to  enact  the  role  of  a  semi- 
invalid  during  most  of  the  period  he  had  loitered  around 
Tuxbury. 

How  much  of  this  illness  was  real  no  mortal  could 
ever  know.  That  sometimes  it  was  assumed  was  clearly 
evident  from  the  fact  that  the  man  had  walked  to  the 
adjoining  town,  at  least  eight  miles  distant,  and  returned, 
while  the  family  where  he  lodged  supposed  him  too  ill  to 
leave  the  house. 

It  was  almost  incredible,  too,  that  nobody  in  either 
town  had  observed  the  man  or  crossed  him  upon  the 
country  road  during  that  journey ;  but  such  appeared  to 


340  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

be  the  case,  and  Blatchley  had,  both  in  coming  and  going, 
chosen  the  least  frequented  highways. 

The  sailor,  too,  must  have  managed  very  adroitly 
when  neither  his  entrance  into  the  bank  alley  nor  his 
exit  had  been  observed,  for  had  this  been  the  case  sus- 
picion must  have  inevitably  fastened  on  him ;  but  he  had 
managed  to  elude  both  police  and  towns-people. 

Dr.  Avery  and  young  Whitmarsh  had,  as  I  said,  both 
arrived  at  one  conclusion.  It  would  be  better  to  acquaint 
the  latter's  brother  and  sister  with  Hardy  Shumway's 
confession  without  delay.  Nobody  else  need  ever  know 
it ;  but  the  dead  face,  under  their  roof,  and  the  life  which 
he  had  not  spared,  to  save  Marjorie  Carruthers,  would 
plead  more  eloquently  for  Berry's  brother,  in  the  shock 
and  horror  which  must  necessarily  follow  the  first  knowl- 
edge of  his  crime,  than  any  words  could. 

An  hour  after  midnight  they  had  come  together  in  the 
library,  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  and  Ben,  with  Miss 
Carruthers  and  Dr.  Avery. 

"  Well,  Ben,"  said  the  doctor,  "  it's  your  place  to  tell 
them." 

"  I  wish  you'd  do  it  for  me,  doctor.  It's  hard  to  drag 
all  that  up  against  the  poor  fellow,  remembering  how  he 
lies  in  the  next  room." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Ben?"  cried  his  brother;  but 
then  Dr.  Avery  commenced  talking,  and  for  a  while  John 
Whitmarsh  asked  no  questions.  In  a  half  hour  both  hus- 
band and  wife  knew  Hardy  Shumway's  confession  from 
beginning  to  end.  For  a  while,  with  the  dead  lying  in 
the  next  room,  and  the  living  he  had  died  to  save  before 


THE  MILLS   OF   TUXDURY.  341 

her  eyes,  that  tender-hearted  little  Eleanor  was  harder 
than  her  husband 

One  awful  night  last  winter  rose  up  vividly  before  the 
woman.  She  remembered  the  limp,  senseless  figure  of 
her  brother-in-law  as  the  men  had  brought  him  in  and 
laid  him  upon  the  bed.  She  saw  Marjorie  standing  there, 
with  her  white  face,  holding  Death  at  bay. 

"  I  shall  always  think  he  came  so  near  being  your 
murderer,  Ben.  If  he  had  lived,  we  should  only  have 
thought  him  fit  for  the  gallows." 

"  That's  true,  Eleanor.  It  was  an  awful  crime,  and 
he's  paid  for  it  awfully,"  added  her  husband,  his  feelings 
swaying  between  wrath,  horror,  and  pity. 

Marjorie  Carruthers  went  over  to  Mrs.  Whitmarsh. 

11  Eleanor,"  she  said,"  do  you  know,  I  should  be  lying 
right  in  that  poor  fellow's  stead  to-night  if  a  great  remorse 
had  not  worked  all  this  time  in  him?  " 

"I  know  it,  Marjorie."  throwing  her  arms  around  the 
girl,  as  though  she  would  shield  her  from  some  menacing 
evil.  "I  know  that, — oh,  thank  God  for  you  and  — 
and  you  have  forgiven  him,  and  it  was  Ben  he  would 
have  killed  !  » 

"Yes-  I  have  forgiven  him,  Marjorie,  for  Ben's 
sake." 

The  young  man  came  over  to  them  all.  Dr.  Avery 
saw  there  was  no  need  of  his  speaking  now. 

"  Think  of  the  cold  and  the  starvation  and  the  misery 
hunting  him  down  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  John, 
and  think  if  Eleanor  had  stood  in  the  place  of  that  poor 
child  upstairs !  " 


342  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

"  God  knows  what  I  should  have  been  driven  to  do, 
—  God  only  knows,"  said  John  Whitmarsh,  looking  at 
his  wife.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  self-control  and  few 
words  usually.  You  knew  that  speech  must  have  been 
wrung  out  of  his  inmost  soul. 

"  I  think  if  I  had  known  before,"  continued  Ben  Whit- 
marsh,  "  I  should  have  felt  a  great  pity  for  the  man  ;  but 
now,  whatever  wrong  he  did  me,  he  has  more  than  atoned 
for  it  here;  "  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  Marjorie's  shoul- 
der. "  Her  life,  dearer  than  my  own,  —  is  not  that  price 
enough  for  him  to  pay  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Ben,"  answered  his  brother,  in  a  broken  voice 
"  you  and  I  will  forgive  him,  Eleanor,  for  Marjorie's 
sake." 

She  was  the  last  to  say  it,  this  little,  generous,  tender- 
souled  woman ;  but  when  she  did,  it  was  sobbed  out  from 
her  inmost  heart  upon  her  lips  :  "  Yes,  Ben,  for  Marjo- 
rie's sake,  for  yours  too,  I  will  forgive  him." 

Then  Dr.  Avery  knew  that  his  time  had  come.  He 
slipped  forward.  "  We  must  remember,  too,"  he  said, 
' '  that  life  was  sweet  to  the  young  workman,  the  life  he 
gave  up  in  one  moment,  and  there  was  his  little  orphan 
sister  to  leave  behind  him." 

"  She  shall  never  suffer,  — never  so  long  as  I  have  a 
roof  over  my  head  or  a  loaf  to  set  on  my  table,"  cried 
Mrs.  Whitmarsh,  her  face  glowing  almost  fiercely  behind 
its  tears. 

"That's  right,  Eleanor!  We'll  take  charge  of  the 
poor  little  friendless  thing,"  answered  her  husband. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  343 

"  The  child  belongs  to  us  —  Marjorie  and  me,"  said 
Ben  Whitmarsh,  simply. 

Just  then  the  dawn  began  slowly  to  lift  its  gray  face 
upon  the  distant  hills.  Through  the  eastern  windows  of 
the  library  they  all  turned  and  saw  it. 

"  What  a  night  it  had  been !  "  they  all  thought,  but 
Benjamin  Whitmarsh  thought  also  of  the  doctor's  words. 
They  were  true.  The  dawn  was  shining  into  the 
windows  too,  where  Hardy  Shumway  lay,  but  his  eyes 
did  not  turn  to  welcome  it. 


344  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IT  was  May  again  at  Tuxbury,  and  close  on  June  came 
a  week  of  that  rare,  delicious  weather  when  the  earth, 
that  has  staggered  and  struggled  through  her  long 
storms  and  snows,  sings  afresh  the  triumphant  song  of 
her  thousands  of  springs,  —  the  old  earth  smothered  and 
reeling  ainid  the  laughter  of  her  leaves  and  blossoms. 

These  days  are  very  busy  ones  at  Tuxbury.  Something 
is  going  on  there,  and  everybody's  face  carries  a  grand 
secret,  and  looks  wise  and  happy  over  it ;  but  for  all  that, 
secrets  of  this  kind  have  a  wonderful  way  of  oozing  out, 
and  everybody  in  Tuxbury  knows  that  a  wedding  is  close 
at  hand,  under  the  roof  of  the  long,  low  stone  house,  with 
its  pretty  piazzas  and  balconies. 

As  for  Berry  Shutnway,  so  eager  and  pleased  over  the 
happiness  of  her  adored  Miss  Carruthers,  you  would 
know  this  little  girl  of  ours  at  the  first  glance ;  still,  her 
face  has  rounded  out  a  good  deal  from  the  brown,  peaked 
face  which  met  Marjorie  Carruthers  one  cold  afternoon 
so  long  ago  in  the  road. 

The  loss  of  Hardy  did  not  crush  the  girl.  The  youth 
was  too  strong  in  her  veins  and  her  soul  for  that.  It 
was  a  terrible  grief  to  her,  —  one  that  in  some  sense  she 
will  never  get  over,  —  for  Hardy  was  her  brother,  the 


THE  MILLS   OP  TUXBURY.  345 

last  of  her  kin,  and  the  heart  of  Berry  Shumway  was 
tenacious  as  it  was  tender. 

In  the  first  fresh  bitterness  of  the  girl's  grief  over  her 
brother's  loss,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  only  had  one 
wish  —  to  go  and  lie  down  close  by  Hardy's  side  and 
sleep  there  without  waking. 

But,  in  one  way  and  another,  life  came  back  and  called 
softly  and  pleasantly  to  Berry  Shumway,  and  her  soul 
could  not  choose  but  answer. 

Then  kind  and  thoughtful  friends  were  all  around,  to 
soothe  and  comfort  her  —  new  friends,  it  is  true  —  and 
for  a  little  while  the  new  life  was  strange  and  bewilder- 
ing ;  she  was  shy  and  unused  to  it,  and  wanted  to  be 
alone  with  her  grief  or  with  Miss  Carruthers.  The 
Whitmarshes  took  the  child  home  at  once,  but  perhaps 
even  Marjorie  herself  had  borne  a  smaller  share  in  wak- 
ing Berry  out  of  the  first  stupor  of  her  grief  than  the 
baby  had  done. 

The  little  fellow  took  to  her  at  once, —  any  baby 
would,  for  that  matter,  —  and  she  had  a  wonderful  fond- 
ness for  children,  and  they  gave  him  up  pretty  much  to 
her  care.  It  was  just  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for 
her,  taking  her  thoughts  away  from  her  own  grief.  The 
boy  had  no  regard  for  that,  as  older  people  would  have 
done,  and  he  brought  her  his  playthings,  and  in  his  im- 
perative childish  fashion  insisted  she  should  mount  his 
rocking-horse  and  set  his  files  of  painted  tin  soldiers  in 
marching  order;  and  one  day  the  old  merry,  happy 
laugh  rang  out  of  her  lips  when  the  boy  strode  suddenly 
up  to  her  with  a  fierce  martial  air,  his  officer's  cap 


346  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

aslant  on  his  curls,  and  his  wooden  sword  pointed  mena- 
cingly at  her. 

She  looked  around,  startled  and  half  accusing  herself 
at  the  sound  of  her  own  old  laugh,  remembering  where 
Hardy  was  lying  in  the  dark  and  stillness,  and  feeling 
that  she  had  no  right  to  be  happy  now ;  but  afterward 
she  remembered  his  last  words  to  her ;  she  knew  that 
Hardy  would  have  been  glad  if  he  could  have  been  there 
to  hear. 

It  is  a  sound,  healthy  nature,  you  see,  to  the  core, — 
no  morbidness  nor  superstition  wrought  up  in  it. 

After  this  Berry's  merry,  twinkling  laugh  came  to 
be  a  very  natural  sound  in  the  household,  everybody 
smiling  to  hear  it. 

Berry  Shumway  has  changed,  too,  in  many  ways.  It 
could  not  be  otherwise  with  her  quick,  absorbent  nature, 
brought  in  constant  contact  with  people  of  the  highest 
breeding  and  culture.  Naturally  bright  and  assimila- 
tive, the  little  factory  girl  has  shed  her  old  manners  and 
habits  in  a  wonderful  degree,  catching  unconsciously  the 
finer  speech  and  ways  of  those  about  her,  without  losing 
the  groundwork  of  her  native  simplicity. 

Miss  Carruthers,  too,  has  aroused  in  her  a  strong  love 
of  study,  and  Berry  is  happy  over  the  prospect  of  at- 
tending the  academy  in  the  adjoining  town  next  year ; 
she  being  the  especial  protegee  of  young  Whitrnarsh  and 
Miss  Carruthers.  One  of  these  days  their  home  is  to  be 
hers  also,  when  the  new,  stately  house  on  the  hill,  in  the 
midst  of  its  ample  grounds,  shall  be  completed. 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBVRY.  347 

"  It  will  quite  put  our  little  gray  nest  to  shame, 
John,"  gayly  laughs  that  happy  little  Eleanor. 

"  Ah,  dear,  if  the  mistress  under  that  roof  will  only 
be  as  happy  as  she  has  been  under  yours !  "  answers 
Marjorie,  with  a  smile,  half  playful,  half  serious. 

So,  one  morning,  the  sun  shines  in  at  the  open  win- 
dows, and  the  song  of  birds  and  the  fragrance  of  blos- 
soms come  in  there  too.  There  is  a  general  atmosphere 
of  stir  and  preparation  about  the  house.  The  excite- 
ment extends  outside  too,  for  even  the  mill-hands  are  to 
celebrate  the  bridal  of  the  young  master  with  a  holiday. 
The  family  have  just  come  from  the  breakfast  into  the 
sitting-room  in  a  merry  mood. 

"  I  hope  day  after  to-morrow  will  bring  us  just  the 
splendor  of  this  morning,  Marjorie,"  says  young  Whit- 
marsh,  glancing  at  the  sunshine  and  dews  outside. 

She  smiles  at  him,  — a  smile  half  tender,  half  serious, 
—  one  of  the  smiles  which,  with  her,  always  float  over 
great  seas  of  thought :  "I  hope  so,  Ben." 

Then  Mrs.  Whitmarsh  sparkles  up:  "Where  in  the 
world  am  I  to  bestow  all  the  people  who  are  to  arrive 
here  to-night  and  to-morrow  ?  That  is  the  question  at 
present  uppermost  in  my  mind,  to  which  Ben  and  Mar- 
jorie, like  lovers  from  time  immemorial,  are  absolutely 
oblivious." 

"  You  ought,  however,  to  thank  me,  Eleanor,  that  I 
did  not  consent  to  your  sweeping  the  whole  circle  of  our 
acquaintances  with  your  invitations.  In  that  case  we 
should  have  been  obliged  to  turn  the  woods  around  Tux- 


348  THE   MILLS    OF  TUXBURY. 

bury  into  a  Forest  of  Arden,  and  our  guests  must  have 
camped  there,"  laughed  Marjorie  Carruthers. 

While  this  play  of  wit  goes  on  about  her,  Berry 
Shumway  stands  at  the  window,  but  her  gaze  has  gone 
out  of  it ;  yet  she  does  not  mark  the  quiver  of  morning 
winds  in  the  leaves,  nor  the  glitter  of  dews  on  grass  and 
flowers.  Her  face,  rounder  and  prettier  than  it  used  to 
be,  has  still  its  old,  honest  look,  only  just  now  it  is  very 
serious  amid  the  general  hilarity,  which  Berry's  native 
spirits  usually  relish  keenly. 

Miss  Carruthers  comes  over  to  the  girl's  side  :  "  Berry, 
you  were  sober  at  breakfast,  I  noticed.  Is  anything  the 
matter,  child?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Miss  Carruthers.  — at  least  not  much." 

After  that  ambiguous  reply  she  comprehends  Miss  Car- 
ruthers' smile  :  "  That  was  not  much  of  an  answer  either, 
Berry." 

"  I  had  a  dream  last  night.  It  is  very  foolish,  but  I 
can't  joke  it  off." 

"  Let  me  help  you,  Berry.  What  was  the  dream 
about?" 

"  It  was  about  somebody  you  never  heard  of;  his  name 
was  Blatchley,  —Dick  Blatchley,  I  believe."  * 

The  child  did  not  observe  how  everybody  in  the  room 
started  and  grew  still  at  that  name  ;  so,  half  speaking  to 
herself,  she  kept  on  :  "  He  was  a  dreadful  bad  man,  Miss 
Carruthers,  although  I  don't  like  to  say  so  much  about 
him  when  I  think  how  he  was  drowned  one  night  in  a 
dreadful  storm  at  sea.  But  he  had  a  bad  face,  the  worst 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and  he  used  to  come  to  our  house 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  349 

sometimes,  that  winter  of  our  trouble.  Poor,  dear  Hardy 
never  liked  him,  I  know,  or  he  wouldn't  have  been  so 
delighted  when  old  Blatchley  went  off;  but  the  old  sailor 
had  no  end  of  stories  and  sea-yarns,  and  sometimes  they 
helped  Hardy  away  from  his  thoughts  ;  and  perhaps  they 
would  me.  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  oaths  and  the  man's 
dreadful  face. 

"  It  came  back  to  me  last  night,  Miss  Carruthers,  just 
as  I  used  to  see  him,  and  it  seemed  as  though  I  was  at 
home  again,  standing  by  the  kitchen-fire,  and  the  man 
was  before  me  with  his  coarse,  blotched  face  and  his  thin 
yellow  beard,  and  said  something,  — I  couldn't  make  out 
just  what,  only  he  seemed  to  have  something  to  tell  me. 
'He  did  it,'  he  said,  —  '  him  and  me;  but  it  won't  do 
you  any  good  to  know,  and  I  shall  al'ays  keep,  mum. 
Anyhow,  it  turned  out  better  than  I've  expected.' 

"  Of  course  it  was  only  a.dream,  Miss  Carruthers,  but 
I  woke  up  all  of  a  tremble.  It  was  just  that  man's  bad 
face;  for  the  words  couldn't  have  meant  anything ;  but 
the  dream  clings  to  me;  "  something  troubled  and  doubt- 
ful in  her  voice,  which  was  not  just  like  the  clear,  prompt 
ring  of  little  Berry  Shumway's. 

'  "I'd  try  and  forget  all  about  it,  child,"  Miss  Carru- 
thers managed  to  say.  "  It's  never  best  to  trouble  one's 
self  over  dreams ;  shake  it  off." 

"  Well,  I  will,  —  that's  a  fact,"  said  Berry,  decidedly. 
"Whenever  I  was  in  any  trouble  I  always  found  the  best 
way  to  get  rid  of  it  was  to  go  straight  and  do  something 
to  help  somebody  else  who  was  worse  off  than  I  was." 

"  I  don't  know  as  we  shall  answer  your  description, 


350  THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURT. 

dear  child,"  laughed  Miss  Carruthers ;  "  but  at  all  events 
you  can  go  out  and  gather  some  flowers  to  dress  the  man- 
tel. Nothing  like  sun  and  air  for  shaking  off  cobwebs 
of  dreams  and  all  such  nonsense  out  of  our  brains  ;"  think- 
ing it  best  to  turn  off  the  whole  matter  with  a  jest  to  Ber- 
ry. "  Here  comes  baby,  too,  to  help  you,  just  in  the 
nick  of  time,"  as  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  household 
toddled  into  the  room. 

"Yes,  baby,  we'll  go  this  very  minute,"  said  Berry, 
with  her  old  animation,  and  she  ran  for  her  hat ;  but  she 
was  a  little  surprised,  when  she  returned  with  it,  that 
Miss  Carruthers  herself  took  it  from  the  girl's  hands  and 
tied  it  on,  smiling  in  such  a  soft,  tender  way,  although 
she  did  not  speak  one  word. 

'•  She's  just  an  angel,"  murmured  Berry  to  herself  as 
she  took  the  little  boy's  hand  and  they  set  out  together. 

Berry  little  guessed  whafr  talk  went  on  inside  for  the 
next  hour.  It  was  not  singular  that  this  strange  dream 
had  greatly  impressed  the  people.  Not  one,  however, 
was  superstitious  ;  the  great  dread  with  all  being,  lest  in 
some  dream  at  night  or  whisper  by  day  Berry  Shum- 
way  should  get  a  clue  to  her  brother's  crime. 

''It  would  kill  the  child,  —  it  would  certainly  kill 
her,"  said  Marjorie  Carruthers,  pacing  across  the  floor. 
"  Poor  little  Berry  !  " 

Yet,  with  the  exception  of  Dr.  Avery,  no  human  being 
outside  that  room  recked  of  Hardy  Shumway's  confession ; 
and  Berry  had  learned  long  ago  that  the  attack  on  young 
Whitmarsh  was  a  matter  never  spoken  of  in  the  house- 
hold, and  never  alluded  to  it  herself. 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT.  351 

The  elder  brother  spoke  now,  bringing  to  this  subject 
the  weight  of  his  strong,  practical  sense  :  "  Ben,  Marjorie, 
Eleanor,  let  us  dismiss  the  whole  matter.  We  will  do  the 
best  we  know  how  for  Berry,  and  we  will  leave  this  mys- 
terious dream  and  all  that  may  come  of  it  with  God." 

It  seemed  as  though  the  whole  household  had  grown 
to  talk  and  think  of  God  since  Hardy  Shumway's  death 
as  it  had  never  done  before. 

Young  Whitmarsh  came  over  to  Marjorie's  side,  and 
she  knew,  though  he  did  not  tell  her,  that  he  was  think- 
ing of  that  day  when  she  had  come  so  near  being  lost  to 
him,  and  of  the  poor  fellow's  arm  which  had  staved  off 
the  death  that  made  ready  for  her  that  moment. 

Outside  in  the  sunshine  and  dews  Berry  Shumway 
was  humming  among  roses  and  tulips  and  all  the  flowery 
miracles  of  May. 

"It's  a  nice  world,  you  and  I  think,  —  a  very  nice 
world,  don't  we,  baby?"  she  said,  filling  the  dimpled 
hands  with  blossoms ;  and  the  child  crowed  and  chattered 
out  there  in  the  light  and  gladness,  it  never  entering  his 
small  head  to  doubt  whatever  his  companion  said. 

The  dream  began  to  slip  out  of  her  thoughts  as  low, 
cold  vapors  slip  off  from  mountain  sides,  before  warm  sun- 
shine ;  but  her  heart  was  unusually  soft  that  morning, 
and  it  did  not  let  go  those  words  about  somebody  not  so 
well  off  as  herself. 

Suddenly  Berry  remembered  Jane  Coyle,  her  old  com- 
panion at  the  Mills.  How  long  ago  it  seemed  since  Berry 
worked  by  her  side,  at  the  looms,  in  the  dust  and  noise, 
the  perpetual  thud  and  clatter  of  the  machinery ! 


352  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURT. 

Jane  was  there,  at  her  old  place,  just  as  ever,  but 
Berry  and  she  had  hardly  exchanged  a  word  for  a  long 
time.  Sometimes  in  her  drives  with  Dr.  Avery,  —  for 
he  often  called  for  her  when  he  had  a  long  jaunt  to  some 
patient,  —  or  when  she  was  out  with  some  of  the  Whit- 
marshes,  Berry  had  come  on  her  old  companion,  trudg- 
ing along  the  roads  just  as  she  had  done  a  little  while 
ago,  although  her  old  life  began  to  seem  to  Berry  ages 
off  by  this  time. 

The  girl  always  leaned  eagerly  out  of  phaeton  or  gig 
to  recognize  her  former  work-fellow,  but  of  late  Jane  had 
hurried  on  with  only  a  slight,  hasty  nod,  which  hurt 
Berry  a  good  deal,  although  she  comprehended  perfectly 
well  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and  that  Jane  fancied 
her  old  factory  friend  had  grown  proud  and  distant 
with  her  better  fortunes  :  "  They  were  making  a  fine 
lady  of  Berry,  who  would  scorn  one  of  these  days  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  workpeople  over  whose  heads  she 
had  been  set  so  high." 

The  Mills  were  not  more  than  a  couple  of.  miles  off. 
Berry,  familiar  with  the  working  hours,  suddenly  recol- 
lected that  Jane  would  leave  at  noon  on  this  particular 
day. 

If  she  could  only  meet  her  on  the  road  home,  and  they 
could  have  a  good  old-fashioned  talk  together,  and  Jane 
could  learn  that  Berry's  heart  was  precisely  the  same, 
"  not  one  bit  set  up  "  since  they  two  worked  side  by  side 
at  the  same  loom,  old  memories  of  pleasant  walks  and 
sunny  noonings  crowding  thickly  upon  the  girl,  and  mak- 
ing her  heart  yearn  toward  her  old  companion. 


THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  353 

When  Berry  Shumway  set  her  heart  on  doing  any- 
thing, small  obstacles,  you  may  be  certain,  did  not,  with 
her,  stand  in  the  way  of  its  accomplishment.  She  took 
it  into  her  head  to  start  off  that  very  morning  and  inter- 
cept her  old  work-fellow  on  her  return  home.  She  made 
a  choice  bouquet  of  moss-roses  and  tulips  of  crimson  and 
gold,  and  then,  without  saying  a  word  to  anybody,  she 
set  out  on  the  road  to  the  Mills. 

They  came  upon  each  other,  — the  two  girls,  — just 
where  the  highways  sloped  down  to  the  meadows,  beyond 
which  lay  the  Settlement  of  Tuxbury,  —  a  lonely  place  ; 
but  to-day  there  lay  beneath  them,  on  the  right,  the  wide, 
green,  lush  meadows  with  the  sunlight  upon  them. 

The  factory-girl  was  no  little  surprised  at  coming  thus 
upon  her  former  work-fellow.  She  flushed  a  good  deal, 
remembering  she  had  on  her  old  pink  working-dress  and 
her  leather  boots,  while  Berry  wore  a  handsome  striped 
pique  and  a  pair  of  pretty  morocco  gaiters;  and  you 
know  what  all  these  things  are  to  girls  and  women. 

"  0  Jane,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  !  "  burst  out  Berry. 
"  I  came  away  here  on  purpose,  and  I've  been  gathering 
the  nicest  bouquet  I  could,  all  for  you ;  "  and  she  held 
out  the  rich,  blooming  mass.  Jane  put  out  her  hand, 
too  amazed  yet  to  be  certain  she  was  really  glad,  but  she 
was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  her  dirty  cotton  glove,  with 
the  ragged  finger-ends. 

"Thank  you,  Berry.  It's  beautiful,"  half  shyly, 
half  stiffly. 

The  truth  was,  Jane  Coyle,  though  a  good-hearted, 
good-natured  girl  at  the  core,  had  been  not  a  little  soured 


354  THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  KURT. 

and  envious  over  her  former  work-fellow's  prosperity.  It 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world,  for  the  contrast 
between  their  conditions  was  very  sharp  now,  and  of  just 
that  kind  to  make  one  sore,  whose  nature  was  not  very 
broad  and  very  sweet.  An  elevated,  ideal  soul  would,  no 
doubt,  have  striven  against  all  this ;  but  Jane  Coyle  was 
nothing  of  that  sort. 

Most  people,  too,  would  have  thought  her  prettier  than 
Berry,  with  her  soft,  brown  skin,  —  too  brown  for  frec- 
kles, —  and  her  bright  black  eyes,  and  the  smooth  black 
hair  around  all. 

"I'm  glad  if  you  like  the  flowers,  Jane,  I  took  so 
much  pains  for  them,"  continued  Berry,  not  noticing  her 
companion's  shyness  or  stiffness.  "  I've  wanted  to  see 
you  ever  so  long,  and  have  a  talk  over  the  old  times  when 
we  worked  in  the  Mills,  and  used  to  eat  our  dinners  to- 
gether on  the  window-seat.  What  nice  times  we  used  to 
have  ! — didn't  we?  Do  you  remember  how  you  always 
broke  your  slice  of  gingerbread  in  two  for  me  ?  What 
gingerbread  that  was  !  Nobody's  will  ever  taste  so  good 
again." 

A  pleased  smile  came  out  on  Jane's  face.  "  Ma'll  be 
tickled,  you  better  b'lieve,  when  she  comes  to  hear  that," 
she  said. 

"  You  must  be  sure  and  tell  her,  Jane ;  but,  oh,  dear  ! 
you  and  I  have  so  much  to  talk  about,  now  I've  really 
got  hold  of  you-!  How  many  times  I've  thought  of  you 
sitting  on  the  window-sill,  eating  your  dinner  all  alone  ! 
and  I've  wondered  whether  you  didn't  miss  me  sometimes, 
and  wish  Berry  Shumway  was  sitting  by  you  too,  just  as 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY.  355 

she  used  to.  Is  the  little  robin's  nest  in  the  tree,  I  won- 
der ?  and  have  the  birds  come  back  to  sing  there  this 
spring?  " 

Jane  Coyle  had  been  staring  at  Berry  and  snuffing  at 
the  bouquet  during  this  talk,  her  pretty  face  growing 
bright  and  pleased  all  the  time.  She  broke  right  out 
now  with  her  native  impulsiveness  :  "I  declare  if  you 
aint  jest  the  old  Berry  Shumway  you  used  to  be  at  heart ! 
I  thought  you'd  be  so  set  up,  now  you'd  got  among  all 
those  grand  people,  you'd  never  want  to  remember  old 
times  nor  common  work-folks." 

"  Oh.!  "  said  Berry,  "  I  thought  you  knew  me  better 
than  that,  Jane.  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  get  any  such 
foolish  notions  into  your  head,  whatever  other  folks  might 
think.  Come,  let's  go  and  sit  down  on  the  rock  here, 
and  have  a  good  chat  together."  Jane  went.  How  mean 
and  contemptible  all  her  little  envies  and  suspicions  looked 
now  to  the  factory -girl !  She  had  a  warm  heart,  and  it 
had  loved  her  old  playmate  and  work-fellow. 

It  was  a  pleasant  place  where  they  sat,  on  a  great  gray 
boulder,  one  side  of  the  road,  the  warm  noon-sunshine  all 
around  them,  and  a  little  way  off  a  great  wooden  trough 
under  a  spring  in  the  rocks,  the  cool  humming  of  the  lit- 
tle stream  winding  its  silvery  air  through  their  eager 
talk. 

Of  a  sudden  Jane  flung  her  arms  around  her  companion, 
her  face  flushed  and  working:  "Berry,  it  does  seem 
real  good  to  see  you.  Them's  the  beautifulest  flowers  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life;  and  to  think  you  went  to  work  and 
picked  them  all  for  me  !  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  ever 


356  THE   MILLS    OF   TUXBURY. 

having  any  bad  thoughts  about  you;  but  you  know,  Ber- 
ry, I  al'ays  liked  you  better  than  any  other  girl  in  the 
world.  I  did  so." 

"  I  know  you  did,  Jane.  Never  mind  the  thoughts. 
They  are  not  worth  talking  about,  and  maybe  in  your 
place  I  should  have  had  just  the  same." 

So  they  sat  there,  with  the  sunshine  about  them  and 
the  cool  humming  of  the  spring  on  their  right,  and  had 
their  talk,  —  foolish,  girlish  talk,  it  might  seem,  if  I  were 
to  write  it  down  here  in  a  book ;  but  perhaps  it  did  better 
work  than  wiser  speech  often  does ;  at  any  rate,  you  may 
be  sure  that  Jane  Coyle  will  never  forget  that  hour,  — 
it  left  a  sweetness  in  the  factory-girl's  memory  long 
after  the  beautiful  flowers  she  held  in  her  hand  that  morn- 
ing had  perished. 

When  they  rose  to  go  at  last,  Berry  said,  "  Oh,  how 
is  Lake  ?  You  must  tell  him  I  haven't  forgot  how  he  car- 
ried you  and  me  home  that  day,  on  the  sled,  in  the  snow- 
storm." 

Jane  laughed  out.  "0  Berry,  wasn't  it  fun?"  she 
said. 

"  Yes ;  and,  Jane,  you  must  come  and  see  me  one  of 
these  days." 

"0  Berry,  I  never  could,"  looking  half  frightened. 
"  Among  all  them  grand  folks  !  •!  should  be  scart  to 
death." 

"  Oh,  no.  you  wouldn't  either,  when  you  came  to  know 
them,  and  how  kind  and  good  they  are.  I  shall  see  that 
you  come  some  time,  Jane.  Now,  good-by  ;  "  and  the 
girls  kissed  each  other,  and  went  their  way  in  the  pleas- 


THE    MILLS    OF  TUXBURT.  357 

ant  noon-sunshine,  with  the  green  gush  of  leaves  all 
around  them. 

"  Hallo,  Berry  !  "  shouted  somebody  down  the  road, 
and,  looking  up  from  a  very  brown  study,  Berry  caught 
sight  of  the  well-known  gig,  and  the  brown  mare  and  her 
master.  Each  seemed  to  belong  to  the  other. 

The  girl  ran  fleetly  down  to  them:  "I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you,  Dr.  Avery .'  "  and  there  was  a  cordial  shak- 
ing of  hands. 

"  Jump  in,  child.     For  once  I'm  not  in  a  hurry." 

Berry  was  not  loth  to  take  her  place  by  the  doctor's 
side,  and  there  was  no  lack  of  talk  between  them,  —  talk 
over  the  beautiful  day,  and  the  people  at  Tuxbury,  and 
the  wedding  close  at  hand ;  bright,  merry  talk  for  a  while, 
which  slid  at  last  into  a  graver  vein. 

"  What  a  brown  study  this  little  girl  was  in,  up  the 
road  there  ! ';  said  the  doctor.  "  I  had  to  shout  two  or 
three  times  before  she  heard  me." 

"You  did,  doctor?"  turning  on  him  one  of  her  sur- 
prised looks.  "  I  was  very  busy,  just  at  that  time,  think- 
ing." 

"  I  saw  that.     What  kind  of  thoughts,  Berry  ?  " 

They  were  easily  drawn  out  to  her  old  friend.  She 
went  over  the  whole  interview  she  had  just  had  with  Jane 
Coyle,  showing  up  the  scene  in  her  bright,  graphic  way. 

When  she  was  through,  the  doctor  was  silent  a  moment, 
switching  the  green  flies  off  Pluck's  shiny,  brown  sides ; 
at  last  he  turned,  and  their  eyes  met. 

"You  were  a  good  girl, — a  very  good   little   girl, 


358  THE  MILLS   OF  TUX  BURY. 

Berry,"  laying  his  hand  on  her  knee.  "You  did  just 
the  right  thing." 

Her  eyes  thanked  him :  "I  wanted  to  do  something 
good  to-day  to  somebody  who  was  not  so  well  off  as  I." 

"  What  put  that  into  your  head,  child  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  unless  it  was  the  dream  I  had  last 
night." 

"The  dream?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,  doctor  !  You  don't  know  about  it.  1 
mean  the  dream  about  old  Blatchley." 

"  Old  Blatchley?  "  Dr.  Avery's  face  did  not  change 
a  muscle. 

"  Yes,  —  that  old  sailor  who  was  hanging  round  here 
a  long  while  ago,  and  who  stayed  with  the  Coyles.  He 
was  a  bad  man ;  but  he  was  drowned  the  next  time  he 
went  to  sea." 

"  I've  heard  of  the  man.  I  think  I  passed  him  once 
or  twice  on  the  road.  But  what  had  he  to  do  with  your 
dream,  Berry?  "  his  tone  the  most  natural  in  the  world. 

Then  Berry  related  her  dream  to  Dr.  Avery,  word  for 
word,  just  as  she  had  to  Miss  Carruthers  that  morning. 

Again,  when  she  had  finished,  the  doctor  sat  a  while 
silently,  switching  the  big  flies  off  Pluck's  sides.  The 
girl  little  imagined  what  was  going  on  in  his  thoughts. 
At  last  he  said,  "  So  something  very  pleasant  and  good 
has  grown  out  of  the  bad  dream.  That  is  the  way  to  look 
at  it,  Berry." 

"Yes,  doctor,  it  doesn't  trouble  me  any  more  now, 
and  —  " 

"Well,  Berry?" 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUXIWRY.  359 

"  I  was  thinking,  coming  up  the  road  just  now,  that 
perhaps  there  was  a  good  deal  I  might  do  for  the  folks  in 
the  Mills.  You  know  I've  lived  among  them  and  worked 
with  them,  and  I  understand  their  ways  and  feelings, 
their  joys  and  troubles,  just  as  nobody  else  could  who 
had  never  been  right  down  where  they  are,  —  one  of 
their  number. 

"  It  struck  me,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  I  stood  between 
these  poor  people  I  had  left,  and  the  rich  ones  to  whom  I 
had  come,  and  that  there  were  many  ways  in  which  I 
might  draw  both  closer  together,  and  make  each  under- 
stand the  other  a  little  better. 

"There's  money  always  ready,  and  there's  hearts  al- 
ways tender  over  any  trouble,  up  at  the  house  ;  but  their 
lives  have  been  so  different  from  the  work-people,  —  they 
seem  a  great  way  ,off,  you  know.  It's  the  living  things 
makes  you  understand.  Ah,  doctor,  I  wish  I  could  say 
better  what  I  mean." 

"You  have  said  it  well  enough,  Berry.  I  have  seen 
the  true  and  noble  purpose  blossoming  beautifully  out  of 
your  bad  dream,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers  of  to-day  have 
blossomed  out  of  mould  and  darkness.  Ah,  my  child, 
you  have  seemed  in  my  thought  to  stand  in  some  half-way 
house  on  a  mountain-side,  and  the  rich  are  on  the  heights 
above,  the  poor  and  ignorant  on  levels  far  below  you  ; 
but  both  shall  come  where  you  stand,  little  maiden,  and 
you  shall  interpret  the  heart  of  the  one  class  to  the  other. 
It  is  a  good  work,  —  I  bless  you  to  it,  my  child." 

They  had  reached  the  gate  at  last.  It  was  dinner-time 
now,  and  they  always  held  the  doctor  fast  when  they  got 


360  THE   MILLS   OF  TUXBURY. 

him  inside  the  house  at  Tuxbury ;  so  he  was  predestined 
to  a  seat  at  the  table. 

After  the  meal  was  over,  they  managed  to  find  some 
excuse  to  get  Berry  off  with  baby,  and  while  the  two 
were  having  a  high  frolic  in  the  other  room,  Marjorie 
commenced:  "  Dr.  Avery,  I  must  tell  you  about  Berry's 
dream  last  night." 

"No  need,  my  dear;  I  had  it  all  from  her  own  lips 
less  than  two  hours  ago." 

"You  did?  About  old  Blatchley  and  all  that  ?  It 
is  most  unaccountable  and  mysterious,"  said  several 
voices. 

"Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  all  that."  Then  Dr.  Avery 
went  over  with  all  that  had  passed  betwixt  Berry  and 
himself  during  their  drive  that  morning.  His  audience 
listened  breathlessly.  How  impressed  and  touched  each 
was  with  Berry's  interview  with  her  former  work-fellow, 
I  leave  you  to  imagine.  It  was  a  time  when  all  their 
hearts  were  unusually  soft. 

"  So,  my  friends,"  concluded  Dr.  Avery,  "we  won't 
look  at  this  dream  on  its  abnormal,  superstitious  side  ; 
only  at  the  good  which  God  has  brought  out  of  it  for 
Berry,  —  for  all  of  us,  I  trust,  —  as  he  has  brought  this 
day  out  of  the  winter  and  the  rains  and  the  darkness." 

Dr.  Avery  said  a  good  deal  more  which  his  hearers 
will  not  be  likely  to  forget ;  then  he  had  his  jokes  with 
the  predestined  bride  and  bridegroom  and  went  his  way. 

Late  that  same  evening,  Marjorie  Carruthers  went  to 
the  front  door,  and  stood  there  a  moment  looking  out  on 
the  night.  It  was  fitting  the  day  it  closed,  —  a  night 


THE   MILLS    OF   TUX  BURY.  361 

into  which  the  stars  wheeled  with  solemn  splendors  their 
golden  lines,  amid  which  floated,  large  and  royal,  the 
beauty  and  glory  of  the  May  moon. 

Thoughts  crowded  thickly  upon  the  beautiful  woman 
as  she  gazed,  —  thoughts  that  slipped  over  the  wide 
spaces  of  her  nights  at  Tuxbury,  halting  at  the  thresholds 
of  mighty  griefs  and  joys. 

She  remembers  the  night  when  they  carried  her  lover 
—  her  husband  that  is  to  be  —  through  the  door  Avhere 
she  is  standing  now ;  and  she  remembers  that  other  night, 
when  they  carried  another  across  the  same  threshold.  — 
a  limp,  breathless  mass;  and  one  was  given  back  to  life 
and  to  her  love,  and  the  other  to  darkness  and  the  grave 
and  to  God. 

She  remembers,  too,  that  summer  night  with  the  stars 
and  the  moon  overhead,  like  this  one,  when  young  Whit- 
marsh  told  her  first  of  his  love,  and  how  in  her  blindness 
and  madness  she  thrust  it  away  with  scorn  and  wrath. 
She  remembers,  too,  that  other  night  by  the  terrace-walk, 
when  God  dealt  with  her  better  than  she  deserved,  and 
she  learned  what  this  love  was  which  she  had  thrust  from 
her. 

The  splendid  eyes  are  smothered  with  tears  as  she 
stands  there  alone,  with  a  faint  quiver  of  night  winds  in 
her  hair.  Inside,  there  is  a  blaze  of  light,  a  confusion 
of  merry  voices,  for  a  part  of  the  expected  guests  are 
already  arrived,  and  to-morrow  will  be  full  of  the  mirth 
and  excitement  which  seem  to  make  the  native  atmosphere 
of  a  bridal.  In  a  few  moments  young  "VVhitmarsh  cornea 
out  and  joins  the  bride-elect  on  the  threshold. 


362  THE   MILLS   OF   TUXBURT. 

lie  sees  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  but  the  smile  that  comes 
through  them  answers  his  question  before  he  has  had 
time  to  ask  it. 

"  Ah,  Marjorie,  how  good  God  has  been  to  me  !  " 

"How  good  he  has  been  to  me,  Ben  !  " 

Then  his  gaze  and  hers  go  off  to  the  tower  looming 
black  and  huge  against  the  stars  and  sky  and  moon  ;  and 
the  same  thought  rushes  upon  them  both.  There  is  a 
green  grave  in  the  new  cemetery,  and  if  he  who  lies  there 
to-night  had  failed  her  once,  Marjorie  would  have  filled 
another  grave  to-night.  Neither  speaks  of  that  now,  but 
they  are  both  silent  a  while,  thinking. 

At  last  Marjorie  says,  "I  think  your  work  and  mine 
lies  there,  Ben.  among  those  people,"  glancing  off  to  the 
great  red  glare  of  the  Furnace.  "How  many  hearts 
and  homes  we  can  help !  how  much  good  we  can  do  ! 
I  have  been  thinking  it  all  over  since  I  learned  of 
Berry's  talk  with  the  doctor  to-day." 

"  So  have  I,  Marjorie.  This  lifting  up  these  poor, 
coarse  men  and  women  and  children  into  a  smoother, 
higher,  happier  life  is  better  than  all  our  old  dreams 
of  luxury,  of  study,  of  pictures  and  books  and  dilletante- 
ism.  Ah,  the  years  shine  wide  and  bright  before  me 
to-night,  —  the  years  with  you,  Marjorie ;  but  there  is 
work  in  them  for  the  poor  and  lowly,  —  work  for  you  and 
me  to  do  over  there  in  the  Mills,  —  the  Mills  of  Tux- 
bury." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  softly;  "it seems  as  though  God's 
hand  pointed  the  way  and  work." 


THE  MILLS   OF  TUXBURY.  363 

"  It  is  late,"  he  said,  "  and  the  night  dews  are  heavy  ; 
you  must  come  in  now,  Marjorie." 

And  she  went,  only  stopping  once  to  look  at  the  night, 
and  off  at  the  great,  looming,  sooty  mass  of  buildings, 
with  the  red  glare  of  their  fires,  and  murmuring  to  her- 
self again,  —  "  The  Mills  of  Tuxbury  !  The  Mills  of 
Tuxbury  !  " 


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